


Faceless

by reddawnrumble



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 42
Words: 285,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddawnrumble/pseuds/reddawnrumble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knows what the demons are, or when they came. But with their uprising came the division of humanity against a darker counterpart, a silent feud for power carried out in shadowy Pits and a galaxy of vivid cities.</p><p>These are the fights; monsters are the combatants. Demons and humans are the Handlers.</p><p>In the midst of this underground inter-species war, the Winchester household is crumbling. John hasn't won a fight in months; Mary is struggling to support her family; and Dean is adrift, not sure of who he is or where he stands. When one monster in particular named Sam steps into their lives, the shellshocked family quickly finds that this Faceless fighter with untold abilities might be able to turn the tide of their luck...if they can keep him out of the clutches of the demons.n.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

They say the world moves in a pattern of constant reliving; something about the bend of light hitting one eye, sending pistons firing in the brain before the other eye catches up. The brain scrambles, filling in the gaps between _now_ and _next,_ until the other eye processes and repeats the same information all over again; it’s the primary cause of déjà-vu, that feeling of experiencing life in a time loop.

He would never want to relive this:

Cold, slick mud between his hands.

A coppery tang between his teeth.

He fell, first to his knees, catching himself on scuffed, raw hands when brutal fingers thrust him down. The dull iron clatter of a bolt sliding into its catch brought him up from his knees, but only so far; his hand found his side and the wound there, a dull keening ache beneath his ribs.

A soupy rush of cold blood spilled into his hand.

He staggered back against the corner of the cage and slid down into a crouch, the desolate wails of the demented stabbing in, penetrating the membrane of peace he’d found on his way here, inside unconsciousness, wrapped in sleep.

Bringing his knees to his chest, he curled a shielding arm around his injured midsection and bent his forehead to his elbow, hiding his face.

He knew where he was. The heap, the slovenly hole. He was on death row.

And the single sad _Please_ in his throat was a prayer and a farewell.


	2. A Derivative of Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The burning shame of another loss grappled against him; John Winchester wasn’t supposed to lose. As a Hunter, he’d been something. He’d had something, a fragile construct of a life. Not like this wayfarer’s existence on the road, hopping from Pit to Pit with whatever monster he’d managed to catch. Catch. He was supposed to kill them.

Chapter One: A Derivative of Absolution

 

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t anywhere close.

 

Darkness arched in a thick black-satin mantel above the highway, a paved path lost in a tide of high grass. Half-buckled barbed-wire fencing chased the road, down the horizon until it swallowed into nothing. To the left of the incoming thoroughfare, there was a low-lit strip of residual daylight as the tawny-red sun dipped itself beneath the horizon and vanished.

 

The highway was as close to deserted as it could be at this hour, aside from the constant companionship of various and sundry tatters of roadkill.

 

And one lonely car.

 

Her tires gobbled asphalt with soundless pleasure, but the rest of her was another matter entirely. Her throaty purr announced that the Queen of All Roads was here, and every other vehicle of any size or stature, make or model, had best shift aside or find itself bumper-to-bumper with a tough gal who’d seen enough to make their prissy Prius engines curdle fuel.

 

She was a nineteen-sixty-seven Chevy Impala, fifty years old, and these highways were her home.

 

John Winchester drove with a one-handed feel on the steering wheel, his free elbow propped on the window-frame, one callused hand teasing through the silver-streaked sweaty curls near his temple. He couldn’t remember exactly when the inky black hair of his youth had adopted the salt-and-pepper quality of age, but he had a feeling he’d left the wisdom by inheritance somewhere far behind him. Otherwise, why would he be on _this_ road, going to _this_ fight?

 

The Impala’s massive posterior swayed with a sudden violent thrust, like someone had given her a solid kick. John’s jaw tightened, his fingers purchasing on the steering wheel in a vice-tight grip. He checked his side-mirrors for any other cars, but the strip was as deserted as it had been for the last twenty miles coming in.

 

That was cause for concern. Quality fights tended to garner interest; interest meant arterial clogs of vehicles on the approach of a Pit. But this one was emptier than a beer keg on New Year’s Eve and that, more than anything, had John’s hackles hunching and his throat bubbling a steam of unidentifiable cusswords as he drove. The last thing he needed, down to an eighth of a tank of gas and his last five-dollar bill, was to make this trip to backass nowhere and find out that his name had been taken off the cards.

 

The last swirls of daylight had bottled and faded when the Impala churned her way over a slope in the road and gave full view of a seedy, rustic barn floating in the pastureland, its doors flung wide with light spilling through the windows. The knot in John’s broad chest eased slightly and he rubbed his hand up his arm, bunching his long-sleeved shirt at the elbow. The cool wind traveled through the window and prickled his exposed skin, the excitement and anticipation turning the feeling to pure goosebumps.

 

The dirt parking square in front of the barn was littered with cars of various origins, few of them younger than thirty years and every one showing clear signs of damage. It was easy to pick out the ones that had brought in fighters: always the oldest cars, skinned of paint and wrapped in clawmarks, punctures from teeth that looked like bulletholes, ancient sweeps of blood that had never been washed clean and had become a warbadge worn proudly on bumpers and doors.

 

John stretched his stocky frame from the car, relishing the feel of coiled muscles relaxing after so many hours on the road. In a swirl of leather and whiskey-smell, bittersweet, John hoisted himself from the car, the door creaking when he slammed it shut. John palmed the roof gently, removing a fine layer of pollen that had accumulated during his travels.

 

“Just you and me, old girl.” His bass murmur blended with the first burps of frogs and crickets in the grass. John followed the smooth curve of the Impala’s flank with his fingertips to the trunk, which had grown still except for a vibration that was barely enough to twitch the wheels. John unhooked a coil of pronged chain from his belt loop, the inward-facing barbs lethal enough to have his full attention as he un-twisted the five-foot tether and checked the knot at the end. “Here we go.”

 

He unlocked and flung the boot of the car wide open, and from there it was a dangerous struggle of human limbs and wiry twists of graying sinew. John waded in to his elbows in the foray that was impressive for just himself and his catch; five minutes later and with his gouged hands to pay respects, John had the creature trussed and muzzled, its flesh-favoring fangs trapped under a mesh cup almost like a breathing mask nurses wore.

 

John stepped back, the rope moving with him, snapping taut between force and lack of motion. “C’mon, outta there.”

 

The creature was hunched over in the trunk, barely able to assemble its enormously spidery limbs into the cramped space; it watched him, beady, hateful eyes in a hairless face. John’s patience slackened.

 

“I said, _move_!” He wrenched the tether, sinking the barbs into the creature’s neck. Its head pin-wheeled side-to-side, a hideous snarl tapering off when one of the prongs jabbed its throat. John stepped back, and it moved with him, in grudging relent, slithering onto the dusty ground in a heap before scrambling into a decently upright position.

 

Cautiously satisfied, John backed toward the barn, his eyes on the creature at all times; at three months and one week, it had been with him longer than any of his other catches. No love lost between them, but there was the terrified placation of a slave to its master, a beaten dog to its owner. A monster to its Handler.

 

As it should be.

 

The barn itself had been converted, from one massive shelter into two rooms; the foyer alone, where John stopped and blinked against the rusty glow from the lamps strung onto the joists overhead, hummed with a sort of eager tension.

 

The line to the waiting counter was short, but not short enough. The creature was already regaining its sensation, sniffing blithely at the air, growing fidgety with the nearness of so many humans, and no doubt scenting the other fighters. John kept a tight grip on the steel-corded leash as he stepped up to the counter.

 

“Winchester. John.” He gave the rope a firm tug. “Got a Wendigo here, gearing for his fight.”

 

“He’s not the only one.” The check-in eyed John with thinly-veiled disgust as he scrawled a checkmark next to John’s name on the list of Handlers.

 

John favored him with a look of equal dislike. “It’s Crowley, right?”

 

“The one and only.” The check-in scooped up a stack of cards and thumbed through them with leisurely slowness.

 

“Well, Crowley, I’ve got a monster here ready to take somebody’s head off if he doesn’t get into the Pit soon. I suggest you work a little faster.”

 

“Going as fast as I can, scruffy.” Crowley licked his thumb casually and tipped the corners of the cards. John cut a glance to the side, wrestling with his volcanic temper, and in the split-second of shifting vision, he caught a glimpse of blackened varicose veins hidden under Crowley’s tailored sleeve.

 

A wiry, unpleasant smile inched John’s lips to the side. “Demon?”

 

Crowley looked up with some mocking surprise in his eyes. “Well. _I_ am. This vessel here comes from a very long line of boring bankers.” He located John’s identification card after an inordinate amount of searching, and offered it to him between two fingers. “Trust me. This life? Much more exciting.”

 

John snatched the card from him. “I wouldn’t take the word of a parasite for the breath it takes to say it.”

 

Crowley arched a superior eyebrow. “I should say the same. Will you be placing any bets today?”

 

 

“I’ll take that wager.” The sleepy drawl tapped John’s back from the barn doors, and he glanced over his shoulder.

 

Tall, dark-skinned, flannel shirt tucked into jeans and cowboy boots to complete the image of lazy poise, the man lounged against the wall behind him, and John bristled. “Gordon Walker.”

 

“Johnny Winchester.” Gordon was flanked by three buckle-bumping wannabees, each with a hat bigger than their heads—but not, John assumed from their stances, bigger than their egos. “You still owe me, what was it, five grand? From that fight in Atlantic City?” Gordon sniffed. “Your vamp lost an awful important round against mine.”

 

“Take the bet, and when this thing cleans house,” John snapped the rope loosely, sending a ripple up its length. “We can call it even.”

 

Gordon smirked, a feral flash of white teeth between dark lips. “I’ll take that wager. And we’ll call it ten thousand you’ll owe me when that scrawny sack of crap gets knuckled under.” He tipped his hat to Crowley and turned back out into the night, taking his men with him.

 

“I may be a swindler at heart,” Crowley said. “But even I wouldn’t cheat a broke man out of his last five dollars.”

 

John glared after Gordon’s retreating back. “Then why’d you let me make a wager. If you know I can’t meet it?”

 

“Because when Gordon Walker realizes you’ve stiffed him yet again, he’ll be sure to take the prize right out of your well-toned and not altogether unfortunately supple backside.” Crowley leaned his flat palms on the table. “And I do love to see human violence every once in a while.”

 

 John almost stripped the skin from his hands as he hauled the Wendigo away.

 

~X~

 

Nobody knew exactly when the demons first came.

 

Speculation held the date at sometime in the mid-to-early nineteen hundreds, when John’s grandfather had still been alive. The general consensus was that the date of their arrival didn’t matter so much as the events that had followed it. Like a harbinger, they’d brought calamity with them, and they were here to stay: not in bodies of their own, they had no bodies, and nobody knew what they really looked like when removed from a host, from their _vessel_.

 

The two surefire signs of demonic inhabitation: onyx eyes and ridges of black veins spidering up arms, backs, and necks. John had first become familiar with them the day his father had picked up an axe and swung it at John’s head when he was thirteen years old; back when the demons had outright murdered at random.

 

Lately, in the last thirty or so years, their influence had shifted direction.

 

Humans and demons had co-inhabited the earth for nearly a century. But long before that, there had been the Hunters, and the Hunted. Humans, and monsters. When the demons had gotten their hands on their first monster meat, things had shifted drastically, a swinging pendulum of point and purpose, from reason to madness.

 

The economic slide was in the chokehold of this black-eyed alien race; the only real way to earn a living, to make cash quickly: betting in the Pits. John couldn’t allow himself to think of a time before this life, when the chains were used to secure a monster before he slid his knife into its ribs, when the shotgun tasted tender flesh rather than dust and disuse by his bedside in filthy motels between fights.

 

Tonight was only tonight. It was only this.

 

It was a circus orchestrated by demons.

 

The doors to the barn’s interior swung wide, at least sixty spotlights all focusing on a webbed circle in the center. John walked through a wide aisle into the loading shoot, where he deposited the Wendigo into one of the empty cages and slipped off its collar, before elbowing his way to the Pit itself.

 

It was an older establishment, one of the oldest from when Pits were really that, pits, dugouts in the hard earth where monsters wrestled monsters, before the demons had upgraded to boxing rings and from there, to technologically-savvy holographic arenas. Dangling from the rafters and scaling the supporting posts like monkeys, not to mention the bodies pressed sweaty skin to sweaty skin on the ground floor, John estimated there were maybe seventy-five people in attendance; not a bad turnout, after all.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The amplified voice boomed through scrounged speakers strung from the rafters, eliciting whoops of delight from the crowd. John swiveled on heel toward the plywood divider at the back of the room, saw the man crouched precariously on top, one hand gripping the unsanded wood while the other tapped wildly against the grip of a microphone in his hand. “Welcome to our very own, _one and only_ , straight-to-your-backyards-here-in-Amarillo-Texas, _Pit Match_!”

 

The screams of delight would’ve better suited winning a war; John folded his arms and watched the man on his dangerous swaying perch.

 

“All the cards are filled… _all the competitors have arrived_ ,” The announcer held his breath and John felt the people around him vibrate with excitement. “With our first two contenders handled by Mistress Marianna and the up-and-coming Martin Jay Highborn… _let’s get this party started_!”

 

A high-pitched buzz split the air and the first two doors in the slotted chute were dragged up by steel cords; with a bird’s-eye view, Pit-side, John watched the monsters streak out into the illusion of freedom. It was the sight of high-arching walls, leering faces above, that must’ve reminded them where they were.

 

One: tall, barrel-chested, with a dog’s head and swaying forefeet that barely grazed the ground with every swaggering step. John arched an eyebrow; Chupacabra, had to be. Rare.

 

The other: for all intent and purposes, it looked like a man, strapped with cords of muscle that would’ve made a professional wrestler take a hit at his bodily image. It was only when the monster stepped into the light that the glowing silver eyes of a Shapeshifter found their way through.

 

All in all, a standard-fair fight; the crowd was rallying itself for nothing, and John let his focus slip. His eyes tracked the room by force of habit, noting every exit, every possible way in or out, and that was when he noticed them; despite the oppressive, sticky heat that made most humans claustrophobic, these four were standing clustered together; arranged in almost a square, their elbows brushing, they watched the scrabble in the Pit with a hawkeyed intent that raised the hairs on John’s arms.

 

Demons. Had to be. With one of their kind working the check-in, and the way they stood out, with that chilly stillness in a room that thrummed with violent heartbeats and rowdy demand.

 

The demon at the group’s head, in the vessel of a girl who would have never been allowed in this barn by age alone under normal circumstance, lifted her head suddenly; a tangle of dark hair fell over her shoulder, and she met John’s eyes across the Pit. He challenged her with a glare that could have turned a man to stone, and watched her full lips curl with a kind of savage pleasure before she leaned over the railing, watching as the hulking Shapeshifter below was stripped skin-from-skin by the Chupacabra that, no doubt, belonged to the demons.

 

The fight was over before John had really taken time to assess it; the Shapeshifter went down and the Chupacabra snapped the human head neatly off in a fount of blood.

“Looks like someone missed Fight Rule Number One!” The announcer shimmy-hopped down the plywood divider. “ _Don’t lose your head._ ”

 

A few polite laughs punctuated the hackneyed joke; every eye was riveted on the Pit as the Shapeshifter was dragged out in a sloppy mess of skin and blood, and the next monster was loosed through the chute.

 

It was a hectic swirl of light and sound, the roar of human bloodlust mingling into the shrieks of the creatures as their claws and teeth ripped against each other’s bones.; in the background, constantly, the announcer narrated the fights, every blow met with a hard breath and an, “ _Oh, that’s gotta_ hurt!” Blood swirled through the dirt, turning it to mud, and John watched with no surprise but livid frustration as the Chupacabra rose undefeated through the ranks. By every standard of the industry, this was a small fight; but the money peddling through it was real, and so was the adrenaline-high produced by the engrossed viewers. Loss wasn’t affordable when every Handler needed the winnings to survive to the next town and the next fight.

 

It was an electric jolt when John heard his name being called, the characteristic squall of the next fight’s beginning superseding any real sense of sport. No one knew John Winchester’s name, because unlike any human with a title in the sport, he kept his nose as clean as possible.

 

But tonight, someone was noticing the leather-jacket, nondescript human man in a toss of strangers.

 

The demon was watching him again, with that same cat-like sneer. John ignored her, intent on the fight as the Wendigo slipped its muzzle and honed in on the closest strum of blood in veins: the Chupacabra, dancing and circling, its dog-like head swaying on its human neck. They were almost evenly matched, height and muscle, and John felt the first surge of hope that this was the fight that would turn his Winchester luck around.

 

The monsters circled one another for a full minute, the shrieks in the room abating slightly in the breathless pause. John gripped the woven ropes of the Pit’s fencing with one hand, the other dipping into his back pocket and running over a papery edge for a second before it, too, slid up to feel the scratchiness of the twine.

 

The starving Wendigo lunged first; its teeth sank into the Chupcabra’s arm with a sick squirt of blood that put the crowd into frenzy. John leaned forward with a rush of relief making him lightheaded; below him, his fighter released its prey and circled, bleating a near-human sound of frustration around the tough, ropy slab of skin still hanging from its mouth. It spat and lunged, slewing sideways, jolting the Chupacabra off its feet and perching on its chest, savage teeth tearing for the throat.

 

The crowd went wild, their screams of pleasure at a good fight lifting John’s mood higher than he’d felt it in months. He spared a satisfied smile for the demon, who for the first time in over an hour looked unsettled and angry. She was young, John surmised, maybe even at her first fight, and not understanding that the feelings of loss and failure that the demons thrived off of in the humans, worked both ways.

 

Though not often. Almost never. In fights, human Handlers to human Handlers, it was a fair draw. But there was something in the method of training that the demons employed, something that made their fighters a hundredfold stronger, always two steps faster, with blows that dealt greater damage time and time again. Humans winning in demonic matches was unheard of; looking back now, John could think of no exception, yet they let humans buy their creatures into higher and higher rounds that they’d never qualified for, only to fall harder and harder every time. Sometimes the price, John knew, was more than they could bear to pay. Those that ran, never ran for long. It was a vicious cycle of pain and fear and desperate scrabbling to the top only to tip over the vast plunge back down the other side. There was no winning, but there were always the stupid few who tried.

 

John suspected the demons relished in that, almost as much as they enjoyed being pitted against their own kind in the finals, in the most dangerous fights.

 

The pained squeal of body cracking against the wall dragged John from his headspace, and his stomach vacated its lot to splash into his knees when he saw the Chupacabra lift the Wendigo bodily for a second time and hurl it against the wall. John heard bones crunch, his fighter falling warped into the mud.

 

“No, no-no-no-no-no, come on, you son of a bitch. Come on!” The words distorted themselves through his teeth as John leaned against the rope, willing the Wendigo to rise.

 

And it did, if for nothing else than for survival; its limbs folded underneath it and it straightened, slinking away, wounded and confused until the Chupacabra fell on it again, tearing a handful of meat from its side, exposing the ribs beneath, gritty flashes of white through raw flesh and ropy strands of muscle making some of the spectators gag and turn away.

 

John watched his dreams of canceling debts, earning money, making a name as the first to take a demon’s crown, vanishing like smoke as the Wendigo flopped and wriggled away on all fours before the Chupacabra descended on it one last time.

 

John was watching the girl, not the fight, when the Wendigo’s limbs started to

snap off one-by-one in superhuman hands. Eyes glittering with triumph, the demon lifted her chin, her chest swelling with the whoops and jeers of the spectators, the enthusiastic commentary of the announcer playing right along; they were utterly under her spell, under the spell of her kind, this shroud of violent entertainment that they’d brought with them when they’d first arrived. Humans were slaves to the thrill of brutal, abject violence, and once again John had played into their hands. Just like the rest of them.

 

He tugged up the collar of his jacket, and sank back into the crowd.

 

~X~

 

Gordon Walker never did catch up to him, and for that John was grateful.

 

He parked the Impala far from the barn after a good hour of driving off-road, escaping the body of his latest failure, the smug look of the demon named Crowley and the vindication of a girl whose name he didn’t know; he found solitude under a shroud of stars so thick and uninhibited they seemed like flakes of snow trapped in the atmosphere. He pulled a bottle of Jonny Walker Blue from under the seat and tipped it down his throat on his way around the front of the Impala.

 

Propped against the windshield, watching the endless bank of the night sky with one leg outstretched and the other cocked at the knee to his chest, John drowned the burn in his chest inside the tang of the booze, until all the lights swirled together and he was blinking sluggishly at his own hand outstretched, trying to blot out the moon with his thumb. Chiding himself silently, and sometimes aloud, in faint fits and bursts. He could’ve sold the Wendigo’s meat to someone who would’ve gone hungry otherwise, recouping a few dollars at least; or butchered it himself and saved the scraps for the next monster he came across. They were difficult to feed, not to mention expensive.

 

Expensive. Dollars and cents. It all came down to money or items of value, the only things besides luck and love that John found in short supply.

 

It hadn’t always been that way. Before the fights had become so popular…

John’s brain skirted away from that trail of thought; it only ever dead-ended in pain, the kind he couldn’t suffuse in anything but the bottom of a bottle. Sometimes whiskey, sometimes stronger.

 

The hood of the Impala was still warm beneath him; John rocked his hips slightly to find a more comfortable position on her hard blacktop, massaging his knuckles against the polished metal. The burning shame of another loss grappled against him; John Winchester wasn’t supposed to lose. As a Hunter, he’d _been_ something. He’d _had_ something, a fragile construct of a life. Not like this wayfarer’s existence on the road, hopping from Pit to Pit with whatever monster he’d managed to catch. _Catch_. He was supposed to _kill_ them.

 

But what choice did he have? What choice did any of them have? They were all just pawns in the demons’ cat-and-mouse game.

 

The wind teased itself around him with the arctic taste of winter threatening; the fights would chase themselves deeper underground, soon, farther south. And like a wandering nomad, John would go with them.

 

He slid a finger into his pocket again, catching a fluttering scrap of paper between two fingers and drawing out the glossy, creased photograph that was almost like a badge worn on his body at all times. Its corners curled in, bent by his restless fingers during fights, and it had been crumpled in a drunken fist more times than he cared to remember, smelling like pungent beer and Scotch. The quality of the picture had faded to an unsaturated blur.

 

It was all he had left.

 

Two faces, frozen forever in happiness: a woman with golden hair and a smile like sunlight, a little boy snatched up in her arms, crew-cut brown-blond hair and an ear-to-ear, cheek-splitting megawatt grin. A tattered, wrinkled photograph was all John had left of them, and he’d never felt it more profoundly than tonight; alone, and at the end of his rope. No money, no monster, no hope.

 

He tipped forward, carding his hand back through his dusty, unkempt dark hair, tracing their faces with his eyes. For as many times as he’d seen the picture, he’d memorized it, backwards and forwards, inside and outside; the image of their faces burned on behind his eyes.

 

He had nothing left: just the picture in his fist and the car beneath him, and the weapons stashed in the trunk. And an empty house, a semi-permanent lodging to go back to after everything, just as cold and isolated as the journey had been. It was a ghostly structure, haunted by the last memories of the laughter that used to paint the walls; John never stayed there longer than he had to.

 

With the Wendigo gone, that tomb was the only thing waiting for him at the end of this pointless road.

 

The silence of the night was suddenly, chokingly overwhelmingly; John dug through his other pocket, flipping open his phone. The weak backlight flickered to life on a fuzzy screen, and John was already dialing before the phone had caught up to the frantic sweep of his thumb across the keypad; with how many times he’d been within a breath of dialing the last crucial digit to close the distance between them, and lost the courage at the last possible second, he had the number memorized almost as well as the faces in the photograph.

 

The phone rang half a dozen times, the grating buzz winging between his ears. When it clicked to life on the other line, he heard the sound of voices, cheerful and loud, slurred by distance and colored by laughter.

 

And then, right in his ear: “Hello?”

 

He squeezed his eyes shut; she sounded breathless and happy, the way he’d always tried to imagine her. She sounded like the woman in the picture, in his mind. “Mary. It’s me.”

 

If it was possible to feel a shift in demeanor over the miles, he felt it just then. “John.” There was a stringent finality to the word that made it sound like an accusation. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

 

“No, don’t…don’t hang up.”

 

“How did you get this number?” Her tone suggested that any answer would be the wrong one, and John found himself wishing he’d never opened his mouth; that he’d just listened to her laughter and hung up and remembered her that way.

 

“Be surprised what you can suss up if you keep at it long enough.”

 

She sniffed, and he could imagine her crossing one arm around her waist, turning her back on the people around her so that she could focus on the thing that was infuriating her the most: _him_. “What do you _want_ , John?”

 

“Nothing. Everything. Mare, I dunno.” He admitted. “Who’re you with?”

 

“None of your business.” She snapped.

 

“All right, all right, I know. And I’m sorry. Guess I just miss you.”

 

“After twelve years? You have an awfully hard time moving on.”

 

There was a pregnant, painful pause, John studying the staggered reflection of the moonlight on the Impala’s hood. Finally, Mary sighed.

 

“They’re just some friends we’ve been staying with. Temporarily.” The volumes of sadness in her voice made John’s skin tingle. “I should go.”

 

“Mary, wait.”

 

“ _What_ , John?”

 

“What do you mean, temporary? Everything okay?”

 

“They’re moving to _Europe_ , John.” It was unfair, the way her tone suggested he should know that, but somehow John still had to temper down a fleeting rush of guilt. “No, it’s not okay. I don’t know what I’m going to do to get us to my next paycheck. Now, what is it you want?”

 

He felt like a fool just for saying it:  “I need your help.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two: A Family Business, Part I

 

Dean Winchester dropped his dufflebag and guitar case onto the couch and appraised the living room; coated in a fine layer of dust and sprinkled with daylight sneaking around the heavy drapes, it looked and felt like no one had been here in months. Dean knew better, but the place gave him the creeps anyway.

            Rolling his head lazily in a failed attempt to loosen the knots in his muscles, he dug the fingers of his right hand into the kinks behind his left shoulderblade and scrunched his face, stifling a sneeze. His boots stirred up more filmy particles off the hardwood floor.

“This place is like a friggin’ graveyard,” He complained. “Remind me again why we spent twenty hours in a car for this?”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Dean.” Mary crossed the room and flung open the drapes in front of him, kicking up so much dust a sneeze finally escaped Dean’s sizeable willpower. He groaned and shook his head.

“Great, now I’m gonna inhale asbestos and die a slow, painful death.”

“Poor baby,” Mary’s tone was laced with so much sincere sympathy as she looked over her shoulder, Dean flashed her a cheeky grin before coughing subtly into his elbow. “It’ll be fine, Dean. I promise.”

For close to the millionth time in twenty-four years, it struck Dean just how well Mary knew him; he could say one thing and mean another and she would separate the two and address them both; that was part of what made her beautiful, at least to him. In a non-biased, center-of-the-world kind of way, Dean knew she _was_ beautiful. Like she carried this light inside of her; he’d never seen anyone else shine that way.

He joined her by the window, staring into the street; it was rimmed with grass and bottomed out on the other side into Kansas flatlands, which was a better name for what was, without contest, the most boring landscape on planet earth. Nowhere close to the silver jungles of New York, at their backs now after almost a whole day of driving. Dean loved a good roadtrip as much as the next person, but being crammed in the cab of his pickup truck tended to make him sore.

“What the hell are we doing out here, mom?” The question slid out in the gap between his thoughts, a little sharper than he’d intended. He was stiff and cramped and had a slow-burning frustration in his gut. He wasn’t leaving much behind in his home of almost a decade, but that didn’t make this any easier.

Mary shifted closer, resting a hand between his shoulderblades, under the hood of his sweatshirt. “The whole drive I was asking myself the same thing.” The words wrangled out tiredly. “But let’s talk to John before we ask that question.”

Dean stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah, where is he, by the way?”

Mary dropped her hand and turned toward the doorway, where she’d left the two suitcases that held everything she owned. “I told you as much as I know, Dean. He said he’d meet us at the house.”

Dean followed her, his shoulders still hunched. “And yet, here we are. And he’s a no-show,” He added, under his breath, “Surprise, surprise.”

Mary angled a curious look at him over her shoulder as she knelt by the suitcases. “What’s gotten into you? You’re like a porcupine this morning.”

His sharp tongue wanted to bring up the sixteen hours of the roadtrip that he’d done without stopping, the fact that Ellen and Bill were moving to Europe and taking Jo—the closest thing to a relationship Dean had ever managed to get into—with them, and now they were back in Kansas for the first time in twelve years and it was the last place he wanted to be.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorpost. “I dunno. Just wiped out, I guess.”

Mary straightened up, that intuition back in her eyes. She cradled his shoulder in one hand and Dean took that as an invitation, melting into her arms with his head hanging over her shoulder. Her fingertips traced a pattern of five-point stars along his spine, something she’d been doing for as long as he could remember. “The couch is free. Why don’t you doze off?”

Getting caught sleeping on the job when John got in would be a fate worse than death; especially since Dean’s last memory of the man was John crouching on his level, looking him dead in the eye and telling him, with life or death seriousness, “Look after your mother for me, Dune.”

“Nah, I’m good.” He straightened up and pulled away from her. Mary tipped an exasperatedly-amused smile and rested her hand on his cheek.

“My stubborn little angel.” She picked up one of the suitcases and thrust it against his chest, suddenly, teasingly businesslike. “If you’re so full of energy, maybe you could run this upstairs for me.”

“Do I have to run?” He backed toward the stairs.

“Take your clothes with you!” Mary called after him, on her way to the kitchen. Dean rolled his eyes, slung his duffle over his shoulder and grabbed his guitar case before clomping up the stairs.

The good humor vanished somewhere between the bottom step and the top floor; Dean stopped with his boots coughing up more dust from the shaggy green carpet, staring down the hallway in front of him; the landing curved away on his left, toward the bathroom. He could still remember his mom chasing him out that door and down the hall, scooping him up in a huge fluffy towel when he was at that stage with _no_ stage between inertia and bouncing off the walls.

It didn’t feel real to him; if he was being honest, none of this did. He’s sworn off this place a long time ago.

The guest bedroom, closest to the bathroom, clearly hadn’t been touched in years; Dean took a quick look before ducking back out. Further down the hall was the room that used to be his; John hadn’t bothered taking down the racing-cars wallpaper border or the custom-made, wrought-iron pentagram clock. Or the dream-catchers, talismans, anti-possession wards or stick-on, glow-in-the-dark stars.

“Typical.” He shucked off the duffle and lowered his guitar gently onto the light blue bedspread, then carried the suitcase the last few feet down the hallway to the bedroom that had belonged to John and Mary over a decade ago.

It was the first part of the house that looked like it had seen some use; not in the immediate past, but at least in the last several weeks. One half of the bed was totally rumpled, there was a busted alarm clock spewing batteries on the floor, and a half-finished beer bottle sat stagnant on the nightstand.

Dean grabbed the clock, flipping it over and digging out the last battery, flicking it into the trashcan beside the door. His mouth wrinkled down at the corners and he tossed the clock onto the bed, then grabbed the beer bottle and sailed it into the trashcan as well. He threw his arms up in victory at a perfect shot, then dropped his palms and rubbed them against his thighs.

The smell of coffee traveled up the stairs and beckoned him; Dean was almost to the top of the landing before the exhaustion and frustration caught back up with him. His fingernails dug into the railing and he dipped his head, a sigh rumbling its way out of his chest. He was deadbeat tired and the slow-burning anger wasn’t burning so slowly anymore; Mary had pulled him out of the party at the Harvelle place, no warning, had him pack up everything he owned and hop into that beater pickup for a ride halfway across the country. Just because John had called her.

Right now, Dean wanted to rearrange the man’s face with his fist. They’d given John a hundred chances to get back into their lives and he’d chosen the coward’s way out, every time. So why all of a sudden the big change of heart? If it was an underhanded grab for money, Dean was pretty sure not even Mary could stop him from pummeling John into the dust.

He shrugged out of his jacket, left the hoodie on since the house didn’t have any central heat, and went back into his old bedroom. Sitting on the edge of a bed that was too small for him, Dean popped open the guitar case on his knees, pulling out the sleek black-finished acoustic and cleaning the body with his sleeve. He figured, if he had to pour his frustrations into something, it might as well be steel cords that could take a hit.

He was working his way through The Eagles songs he knew, landing on _Peaceful, Easy Feeling_ and coming around to wearing his short temper down when he heard something hit the floor under his feet. Dean’s fingers jumped off the strings and he glanced down, tension plucking him tighter than the guitar’s neck. He yanked his foot up onto the bed when another blow landed right under the sole of his boot, jarring a vibration up his leg.

“Dean!” Mary’s voice echoed from right underneath him. “Would you please come down here? I’ve been calling you for fifteen minutes!”

“What, am I five?” Dean grumbled, hauling himself to his feet and tucking the guitar back in the case. He raised his voice to reply, “Yeah, yeah, on my way!”

He took the stairs down to the first floor two at a time, where the smell of strong coffee mixed with the musty odor of mold stopped him in his tracks, sniffing the air like a dog on a trail. He walked into the kitchen where Mary was clattering around, flinging open cabinets and muttering under her breath. The ancient coffeepot on the counter was burbling; twenty minutes in the house and she was already staking a claim.

The hair rose on the back of Dean’s neck; he was liking this less and less.

“So, how long are we gonna wait for the old man to get here before we leave town?”

“Dean—!” The word was half a warning and Dean shrugged his shoulders up to his ears.

“I’m just saying, what if he ditches us?”

The front door popped open behind him, flinging strips of light over Dean’s shoulder. Mary met his eyes with a soft-edged triumph in hers. “You were saying?”

Dean curled his lip and mouthed the words dramatically back at her. She smiled, but the smile disappeared the second she looked past Dean.

“Hello, John.”

Dean had been on the receiving end of that tone more times than he cared to count; it turned the air frosty through the entire house. Dean turned his head as far to the side as he could, to see John without actually _looking_ at him.

He hadn’t changed much; maybe a little grayer in the temples, a little less footloose and fancy-free than Dean remembered. But the face, aside from a dark shadow of stubble, and the neutral expression, were mostly the same. Whereas Mary had crow’s feet and frown lines and Dean had shot up three feet and filled out. Age didn’t seem to have touched John much, or hardship.

Dean rumpled his shoulders into his hoodie, and rolled his head from side to side.

“Hey, Mare.” The nickname slid out of John’s mouth like it _belonged_ there, and Dean bristled, dropping his hand down the doorpost. Mary’s eyes flickered a warning to him before she stepped out into the living room.

Dean swung around with her, crossing his arms. “What took you so long?”

John’s attention bungeed from Mary to Dean, is eyes widening. “Is this Dean?” Without waiting for an answer, John stepped closer. “My God. He grew up. It’s good to see you, Dune.”

“I said, what the hell _took you_ so long?” Dean repeated sharply. That brought John to a halt, his expression darkening.

“You talk to your mother with that mouth, boy?”

Dean’s mouth quirked in a violent smile. “No. _Her_ , I respect.”

“Dean!” Mary snapped.

“Somebody’s gotta call him out!”

“What is this? Mary?” John’s tone demanded an explanation, like he had any right to question who Dean was or how Dean talked to him. He hadn’t been there, for twelve years, and _now_ he cared enough to be invested? Only when Dean inconvenienced him.

“Don’t you talk to her like that!” Dean stepped forward into the argument like he was born for it, his spine rippling with anger. “You think you can just walk back in the door and start looking for answers? No, you don’t have the _right_!”

“This is my house! You don’t give the orders around here like some arrogant child! We raised you better!”

“ _I_ raised him.” Mary interjected, and that ground the escalating debate to a halt. “For the last twelve years, John. _I_ raised him. And I say we are not having this conversation right now.”

The tension bubbled down into a slow brew, John taking a step back, Dean holding his ground. John swiped a hand down his face, then perched it on his hip. “I’m late,” his gaze drilled into Dean. “Because I was picking up an old friend.”

The door opened again with such precise timing, Dean wondered if John had told his guest to wait outside until he’d had a chance to test the atmosphere. Either way, things loosened slightly with the arrival of a burly, bearded man in a trucker’s cap. “Am I interruptin’ something?”

“Bobby.” Mary’s tone thawed, but only by a fraction. “Why am I not surprised to see you running with John?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer what had probably been a rhetorical question in any case. “Come in, both of you. I have a pot of coffee on.”

“Sounds perfect, Mary.” Bobby said gruffly, following John toward the kitchen. There was a split-second, when John passed Dean, that Dean thought maybe they were going to keep the fight going. But John ignored him, striding into the kitchen, and it was just Dean and Bobby in the living room.

“S’good to see you, kid. Been a few years since you and Mary darkened my doorstep. ” Bobby’s smile was soft and genuine, more amiable than John’s glacial distance. Dean found himself smiling in return, even if it was a little forced.

“Hey, Uncle Bobby.” He stepped in for a back-slapping, firm hug.

“Drop the ‘uncle’ business, I ain’t been that for ten years at least.” Bobby scruffed up Dean’s bristly hair as they pulled apart. “Would it’ve killed you to pick up a phone every couple’a months?”

“Maybe.” Dean shrugged innocently. “Nah, you know how it is. Got too busy.”

“Too busy for the phone?” Bobby arched a superior eyebrow.

Dean shifted from foot to foot. “Kinda lost your number.”

“Ah. Your momma wasn’t a fan of the whole—?”

“Monster-dealing business? You pawning fighters off to people for cheap?” Dean finished. “Yeah, not so much. Listen, I wanted to call you, y’know, it just didn’t work out. Mom’s kinda,” He made a cutting motion across his throat. “With the fights.”

“I don’t blame her. It ain’t a pretty business, and it sure as hell ain’t any place for a kid.” Bobby’s words canceled any ill feelings between them. “Still lookin’ for work out there?”

Dean’s heart inched its way toward his ankles at the familiar subject and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, you know how it is.”

“All too well.”

The sympathy in Bobby’s tone made Dean flush uncomfortably. He dropped his hand into his pocket and rolled his shoulders again, clearing his throat. “So, uh, what brings you out here? Kansas is long ways away from Sioux Falls.”

Bobby’s mouth tipped down at one corner in a classic expression of apprehension. “I’ll let your daddy do the talkin’ on this one.” He nodded Dean ahead of him into the kitchen, and Dean went, curiosity piqued.

John was sitting at the table, his head in his hands. Four chipped, mismatched coffee cups, brimming with liquid caffeine, sat on the counter with Mary topping off the last. She nodded to Dean and he grabbed two, passing one to Bobby and keeping the other one for himself, leaning against the doorpost while Mary sat across from John and Bobby sank down in the chair beside him.

“What’s this about, John?” Mary’s gentle tone caught Dean off guard; part of him still expected her to be as angry as he was. This was the man who’d walked out of their lives without a backward glance, and now they were making him coffee, in the same kitchen where he’d told them _goodbye_?

He opened his mouth and Bobby’s head swiveled around with some kind of sixth sense; the glare he shot Dean’s way was so menacing, Dean tucked his lips out and stared down into his coffee.

“Lost another round last night,” John addressed his coffee. “Lost my best fighter.”

Mary sat back, cinching her arms across her waist. “You’re still fighting. And you had the nerve to call me anyway?”

Dean perked up; if John had stayed in the ring, after all these years, then that would make him the only real Handler Dean had ever met. “Wait. You’re still in the game?”

“Dean!” Mary snapped.

“No place else for a man to go, these days.” John ignored her interruption, turning toward Dean instead.

“So, what were you fighting with? Mudhusk? Vampire?”

“Wendigo.”

Dean’s mouth tugged down at the corners, conceding respect for that. “Not bad.”

The lines around John’s mouth eased into a half-smile. “You shoulda seen this thing go, Deano. Let me tell you, it was fast. Damn fast. Not many other fighters could touch it.” 

Dean felt a faint thrum of excitement in his veins. “What’d you have it up against?”

“Anything I could buy into. Rugarus, Black Dogs. Chupacabra did it in.”

“You’re kidding. Those things are still around?”

“ _Enough_!” An outraged Mary cut Dean off mid-word. “I don’t want to hear about these fights anymore! _Especially_ from you, Dean!”

Dean lapsed into silence, but his mind was scrounging up images of his dad’s prize fighter taking on a rare, powerful monster from the Deep South. It made him twitchy with exhilaration; he started pacing in the doorway, taking deliberate sips of his coffee.

John, by contrast, got quiet as he rotated the cup slowly on the parched, rutted tabletop. “Mary, I’m sorry. But I didn’t bring you and Dean in to join the fight. I just wanted to help you out. S’my job, to look after my family.”

“Family?” Mary slapped her hand down on the table. “Open your eyes, John! The three of us aren’t a _family_ , and we haven’t been for a long time.” She stood up, walked to the sink, running a hand back through her ashy blond hair before she revolved on the spot to face John, stabbing an accusing finger his way. “You know, I can’t believe the nerve of you. I told you the day we left that I wouldn’t let Dean be a part of this life.”

“Like I just said, I didn’t bring him in for some sort of partnership! I just wanted to put a roof over both your heads!” John’s voice swelled with irritation.

“Hey, do I get a say in this?” Dean interjected with a winning smile.

“ _No_!” John and Mary’s voices blended into a perfect punch of parental anger, and Dean hackled up at their tones.

“Look, I’m not a little rugrat anymore, all right? I can make my own decisions.”

“Not about this. Not about fighting, it’s not even an option. _John_!” Mary added sharply, when the eldest Winchester just drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. “The Hunting was one thing. It was a valuable skill-set. But fighting? It’s dangerous, it’s a demonic hazard-trap. The only people who stoop to that level are mur—” She bit off the word, snapping a glare onto the floor.

John didn’t miss it. “Are what, Mary? _Murderers_?” He sat up straight, leaning his palms on the table. “Well, you’ve got two murderers sitting at your table.”

“Don’t count me in on this one.” Bobby leaned back, folding his arms on his belly. “I’m just a supplier.”

The pieces connected in Dean’s brain like grinding gears. “That why you’re here, right? To give him a fighter.”

If looks could kill, John would’ve melted under Mary’s stare. He rubbed the side of his neck, a habit annoyingly similar to Dean’s. “Just until we can earn some money, pay off a few debts—”

“Dean, we’re leaving. Now.” Mary flicked off the coffee pot and swept her mug, John’s mug and Bobby’s into the sink, ignoring the protests of both men. Dean held on to his a little more tightly, just in case she was thinking about ripping it out of his hands.

“Wait,” John insisted, springing to his feet. “Mary!”

She was already storming for the doorway, and Dean slid into her path. “Whoa-ho, easy there. Look, mom, can’t we talk this one out?”

“You wanted to leave? We’re _leaving_. I won’t put you in this situation again, Dean. I swore I wouldn’t.”

“Dean is a man, Mary, he’s not a boy.” Bobby put in.

“Don’t talk to me about my son, Bobby Singer!” Mary turned on him so fast it almost made Dean’s head spin. “Adult or not, he’s my responsibility!”

“Can’t this wait?” John pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Look, you can hate the job all you want, Mary. Hate me. But the truth is, you and Dean have nowhere else to go. No work, no plans. I can’t give you everything you want, but I can give you a roof over your heads and beds to sleep in until you get back on your feet.”

Mary pursed her lips, glancing past Dean, into the living room. She pulled in a slow, steady breath, then let it out again. “Fine. One night, that’s all I’m willing to say at this point.”

“Well, it’s yours. As long as you want it.” John nudged Bobby’s chair with his boot. “Listen, Bobby and I got a run to make tonight. We’ll be out of your hair, getting this thing ready. Just holler if you need us.”

“Wait, you’ve already pinned down a fight?” Dean demanded, and John nodded. “Well, what is it?”

“Shapeshifter. Won nine outta ten in the Pits, last five weeks alone.” Bobby said proudly. “Used to belong to a fella named Rufus Turner, sold him to me cheap. When I heard John was on the market, I couldn’t pass it up.”

“I owe him one.” John said appreciatively. 

“You were on your way out…?” Mary hinted, and Dean fought down a surge of disappointment.

“Right. Like I said…you need us, you know where to find us.” John nodded to both of them and hurried for the door, Bobby on his heels.

Mary twisted the hot-water knob on beside the sink, letting the coffee cups fill. “Dean, I want you to stay inside tonight.”

Dean gestured after the men. “Mom, are you—are you even _listening_? Could you quit treating me like a kid for ten minutes?”

“Sweetheart, please,” Her voice was almost swallowed by the irregular gush of the water. “Just do this one thing for me. Don’t go outside until they’re gone.”

Dean heaved a sigh. “Fine. Yeah. Whatever.” He dragged a hand back through his hair. “I’m gonna hit the hay, if you need anything.”

But sleep was elusive; Dean sprawled on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the pale green glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and replaying the confrontation in his head.

            He’d known for a while now the reason John and Mary had parted ways: the fight had torn them apart. Mary hated that life, hated John being a Handler. She’d made the subject taboo after she and Dean had landed an apartment in New York; but it wasn’t an underground practice anymore, not like it had been back then. Fights were about as common as muggings in a big city, and Dean had seen a couple scrappers in back alleys in between school and home.

One thing he did know: if John was still out there, slogging it with the big guys, that made him a rare breed. Most people stayed small-class or dropped out. Dean had to respect him for that much, anyway; problem was, humans making a name for themselves became a target for the bigger names in the business. Which put John smack in the crosshairs.

That rankled at Dean, made him a little nervous.

                        It was around sundown when Dean heard raised voices from outside the house. He rolled off the bed and slunk to the window, twitching the moth eaten curtains aside for a look at the backyard.

            John and Bobby were standing over someone wrapped in chains, some bald guy who looked like a pro-wrestling reject; he was wrapped up in silver chains, glinting in the porchlight.

            The Shapeshifter.

A knock at the door startled Dean and he sat down hard on the floor, letting the drapes fall. “Uh. Yeah?”

“It’s me.” Mary’s voice was muffled by the door. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Nah, I’m good. You can, uh, come in.”

She did, easing the door open and crossing the room to sit on his bed. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“Nothing.”

The lie fell flat. “Dean,” Mary sighed. “You can’t do this to me. Not now.”

“Mom, I’m just _looking_ ,” The words carried on an edgy laugh.

“And you know what’s at stake.” Mary leaned her elbows on her. “Baby, we’ve been through enough. After what happened last month…”

“That wasn’t my fault!”

“You were still _there_ ,” Mary insisted. “And they _will_ take you to prison if you put another toe out of line. I can’t let you go there, Dean, you know what happens in those jails.”

Dean spat out a breath, twisting his head away. “I can take care of myself.”

            Mary closed the distance between them, sliding one hand under Dean’s chin and kissing his temple. “That’s what’s giving me gray hairs.” Her thumb stroked through the stubble on his cheek, and she nodded to the bed. “Get some sleep. You’re not too old for your mother to tuck you in.”

“Aw, sing to me.” Dean drawled, flopping himself down on the bed with his feet brushing the end. “This thing’s too damn short.”

“Language.” Mary chided gently. “Goodnight, Dean.”

 

’Night, mom.”

The second the door shut, Dean rolled back onto his feet, yanking the drapes apart and staring across the yard; he could see the cab light of Bobby’s bucket-van guttering into life, slicing pale yellow across the stunted grass. Dean shrugged on his hoodie and jacket, zipped up both and cracked the door open, glancing down the hall. No sign of Mary; the sound of hissing water probably meant she was in the shower.

            Dean shut the door behind himself and bounded down the stairs two at a time, stopping long enough to scrawl a note on a napkin and drop it on the table: _Be back soon.—D_

Capping the pen with his teeth, Dean let himself out.

It wasn’t a bad night, for late autumn; crisp, but not outright cold. Dean stuck to the outside edge of the lawn, skirting it toward the front of the van; from the corners of his eyes, he caught the movement of John and Bobby manhandling the Shapeshifter into the back of the vehicle, the doors slamming shut behind it. Dean sidestepped up to the passenger door, popping it open and checking the cab; bingo, the keys were in the ignition. He pulled them out and backed off a few feet, waiting.

            It went like clockwork; John and Bobby climbed into the cab, Bobby reached down, stopped, started patting himself down. Smirking, Dean crossed one arm beneath his ribs and started winging the key-ring around one finger, catching it every few revolutions and sending it back the other way.

            It took them a minute to spot him; then Bobby was hanging out the window, one arm outstretched. “Hand ’em over, kid.”

“Nu-uh, not a chance.” Dean said lazily.

“Dean. This isn’t a joke.” John copied Bobby, balancing on the windowsill. “Look, you can hate me, be mad at me all you want. But Bobby’s got six grand staked on this Shifter, in this fight, and if we’re late, that goes to hell.”

“Well, if you wanna get there in time, you’re gonna have to take me with you.” Dean slumped his weight back against the fencepost behind him.

“You tryin’ to pull a fast one?” Bobby snapped.

“Dean, I told Mary and I told you. I didn’t ask you out here to drag you into the fight. I know damn well what your mother thinks of them. And I will _not_ put my son in that situation.” John’s tone was icy. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Sorry, can’t hear you.” Dean jangled the keys next to his head.

John cussed. “Enough, Dean!”

“That’s my line.” Dean snatched the keys in one hand, the ridges of cool metal biting in his palm. “I’m not some pampered, uptown rich kid you can shove on the back burner while you do your business, all right? I’ve seen things, I’ve _done_ things that you and mom don’t even _know_ about. So quit trying to be the perfect parent and just do what everyone wants: let me go with you.”

“You’d be in a world’a trouble.” Bobby warned him.

“Hell, we all would. Mary would skin us alive.”

“I can handle mom.” Dean lifted the keys up so they caught the glint of the moon, then tucked both hands into his pockets and shrugged, lifting his elbows away from his ribcage. “Either you take me with you, or you fish the keys out of the creek.”

John and Bobby swapped glances. Bobby shrugged. “I could shoot him and take the keys.”

Dean licked his lips, wondering how serious Bobby was; you never knew.

“You might as well put the gun against your own head.” John hopped out of the cab and pointed. “Get in, before I decide to take you inside and beat the fear of God into you.”

            “Yeah, right.” Dean swung himself up into the bench-seat, plugging the key in and starting the van with a purr. “See? Was that so bad?”

John smacked him on the back of the head. “I don’t want to hear a word out of you, do you understand me? And when we get to the fight, you’re to stay in the car.”

Dean snorted belligerently.

“Dump his ass.” Bobby suggested.

“Aw, come on!” Dean protested.

“Just drive, Bobby.” John groaned, pressing one hand over his eyes.

The van lurched forward, and they were Pit-bound, Dean’s hands curling into fists on his thighs.

           

 

 

 


	4. Tripwire

Chapter Three: Tripwire

 

            The Pit was a turnoff from the highway, in the seediest part of any Kansas town that Dean had ever had the disgust of seeing.

            The streets were crawling with refuse, rabble-rousers and half-slumped bodies knifed up on drugs, booze or a combination of the two. Bobby, who’d been driving with his arm dangling out of the open window for the better part of an hour, cranked the glass back up, his brows scrunching.

            “This oughta be a show.” He mumbled.

            Dean slung an arm across the back of the seat behind Bobby, contorting himself so he could shove his feet into the space between the seat and the dash. “So this place, the, uh—”

            “Metradrome.” John was squinting like he had a headache.

            “Right. Metradrome. It’s like the royal palace for these underground fights?”

            “For the most part.” John had been explaining this in bits and pieces during the awkward ride down the dark highway. “The next step up from Metra is usually demon-brawls. Real arenas instead of Pits.”

            “But humans never make it that far.” Dean leaned forward as far as he could, getting a glimpse of the moon surfing through tatters of clouds above the ramshackle buildings. “They usually fall out early on ’cause demon pawns are trained better, right?”

            “Exactly. The industry’s a damned joke,” Bobby groused. “Ain’t been a human in the arenas that anyone can remember, and things just keep gettin’ more exclusive. Sooner or later, it ain’t gonna _be_ a human fight anymore.”

            “Just demons and their monsters,” John concluded quietly, like he and Bobby had had this talk before and it never got any better, never ended any other way. “Battling for top card, a winner’s wreath.”

            “Hang on a second, the fights don’t kill the monsters. I mean, they can’t.” Dean’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “You can only kill a Shapeshifter with—what, silver? Same with werewolves, right? Rugarus and Wendigoes have to be deep-fried, extra-crispy.”

            “The fights don’t usually end in the ring.” John explained. “They let these things beat the piss out of each other, until one of them just can’t get up anymore. Missing limbs, bloodloss, it’s a long list. They drag the thing out back and finish it off, sell the meat for scraps and rake in the profit. It’s how Pits keep running.”

            “’Sides that, there’s one thing that keeps the fights in style,” Bobby added, pulling off into a skinny alleyway.

“Yeah. Only thing that can bring a monster to its knees _without_ finishing it off, make it a slow and painful death? That’s another monster.”

“Huh, tough life.” Dean said. “’Course, most of ’em deserve it. I mean, they’re like animals, y’know, only a lot more dangerous.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Bobby stopped the van outside of a hitched gate, waiting for it to ride up on a pulley system before they drove through and into the loading dock of a gray-green, brightly-lit building.

There were vehicles inside en masse, parked alongside pools of what Dean thought was water; on closer inspection, craning his head around John, he realized it was blood. There were half a dozen humans sorting through scraps of monster parts—heads, limbs, severed torsos—separating them into meat-heaps. Eyes widening slightly, Dean braced a hand on the dashboard as Bobby swerved around a man being dragged out by two burly bouncers, flinging obscenities at the tops of his lungs.

“Ooh, somebody’s a sore loser.” Dean commented.

“That’s another poor yahoo who’s probably got nothin’ to go home to after tonight. Just the bottom of a bottle and a cold empty bed.” Bobby wagged his head.

“Monsters are a dying breed. Not easy to come by.” John agreed. “Before long, there won’t be any of them left.”

“Then what?” Dean asked; as far back as he could remember, demons had always been there. Like a plague that haunted a household for days, months, only in this case they’d been around for a century. They’d been the economic center of gravity and the cause of the world’s rapid decline. The dark that balanced out the light; except nowadays it seemed to eclipse it.

“Then they lose interest in fighting each other, in watching humans struggle to make a name for themselves.” John said tensely, watching as Bobby eased the van into a small opening between two trucks. “They’ll probably try to wipe us out again. Start a war against the humans. Anything to keep themselves entertained.”

“Friggin’ children.” Dean said under his breath.

“Someone should just kill them.” John’s tone made the words a direct, furious threat. “Every last one of them, anything with _demon_ in it or on it.”

“That’s fool talk.” Bobby kicked the door open. “Ain’t nothin’ can kill a demon, same as nothin’ can turn a monster back to a human.”

John slid out with that rocky expression. “Stay put, Dean.”

He started to slam the door and Dean caught it with his fist. “Hey, no way. I came this far, I’m not sitting this out.”

“Dean, we’ve had this conversation. You stay out of the Pit, you stay _away_ from the fight.”

“Yeah, you’re right, we _have_ talked about this. Either the three of us stick together, or I’ll have to ask that lady over there for directions to the Pit, myself.” Dean gestured to a shapely, leather-clad, spiky-haired civilian on the curb nearby.

“That’s a man. Get out here.” John grabbed Dean by the collar and hauled him out into the open, shoving the door shut behind him. “Now, you listen to me. This is a bad idea. But you and Bobby? You two are all I’ve got here. So we go after this thing. But you do _exactly_ what I say. Man or not, this a dangerous place, for _everyone_. You understand? I don’t need to be keeping both eyes on you all the time.”

“Yeah, all right, I got it!” Dean swiped John’s hand off irritably. “Geeze, lighten up, man.” He threw out the sides of his jacket and straightened up. “I’m good.”

“Bobby, are you ready?” John didn’t move his eyes from Dean’s face, the stare-off going on a lot longer than Dean was comfortable with.

“Got ’im.” Bobby frog-marched the Shapeshifter around the side of the van. Dean broke eye contact with John and glanced at the monster, watching its pupils refract the gritty lights from overhead in a bright silver sheen. “Let’s shag tail, we’re late as it is.”

John cussed and led the way toward a row of fold-up tables on the back wall of the parking lot, Dean falling in behind him with Bobby bringing up the rear. A cold draft and thumping music blew down from the end of the parking garage, where the asphalt sloped up to the next floor.

The sign-in was a man with oil-slick black hair and a suit that was a few grades too fancy for the dive. The minute he caught sight of John, the man grinned. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite, bets-from-the-stonesack, hard-on-his-luck Handler. John Winchester, isn’t it?”

“Crowley.” John grated out the name like it tasted sour in his mouth.

“You remember me? I’m flattered.” Crowley’s eyes roved over Bobby, the Shapeshifter, and finally Dean. “And which of these charming boys is your pound of flesh tonight?”

“It ain’t the pretty one.” Bobby said sarcastically. “Might be the one all wrapped up in chains.”

“Yes, that was my first guess.” Crowley replied flippantly, turning back to John. “And how many nonexistent dollars deeper into debt do you intend to backslide tonight?”

“None. Bobby’s got six thousand on the Shifter and I’ll pitch in another grand.”

“I’ll do you one better. Because I am such a decent, humanitarian soul and what-have-you, I will give you one thousand dollars here and now, just for possessing the pure moronic resilience to enter another fight after your Wendigo was thoroughly whipped. Furthermore, and I can’t believe I’m being so generous, I’ll give you another, automatic thousand for every round your Shifter wins. But, lose him against the Duchess, and you pay back double what you earned.”

“The Duchess.” Bobby echoed. “Martin’s undefeated vampire champion?”

“Not so much, anymore. I hear she’s traded Handlers.” Crowley dished.

Dean stopped paying attention once they started talking money, regarding the Shapeshifter in silence. He knew the Duchess, he’d seen her name plastered on telephone poles and subway walls for over a year; undefeated champion of the Pit fights, one level below being demon-fodder and stepping up into the real arenas. All she needed was to punch through two more Preliminary fights, and she’d be the first human-handled monster to get past the Pits and into the League arenas.

And they were going to pit a six-and-a-half foot giant against her; a man with bonded cords of muscle and listless eyes and heaving lungs. Standing there wrapped in silver, he didn’t look so much like their ticket out of poverty as he did a scrap of meat for the other fighters to trample.

“Hang on a second,” Dean broke into the haggling without taking his eyes off the Shifter. “Don’t take the deal.”

“Beg pardon?” Bobby said with disbelief.

“Look at this guy. He’s been fighting nonstop for, like, a month. You said it yourself, Bobby. He might make it through the first couple rounds, but stack him against the Duchess? That chick’s faster than a freaking snake, she’ll rip him to shreds!”

“Dean, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” John said dismissively.

“Listen to me!” Dean snapped. “Look, this guy isn’t gonna last through a fight with the Duchess, I’m telling you! Just take the one grand, win one or two rounds, and let’s pull him and get the hell outta here!”

“What makes you think that you have any idea how the fight works, Dean?” John snarled. “This isn’t your world. You’re sheltered, you’re arrogant, and you don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

 “I think the boy’s right, Johnny.” The cocky drawl broke into their dispute. “That fighter looks just about ready to drop.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Kiss my ass, Gordon.”

The dark-skinned man strolled up beside the Shapeshifter, giving it a once-over. “Wasn’t this one of Rufus Turner’s playthings? A real winner in his heyday.”

“Was. He’s mine now.” John replied curtly.

“I don’t see your brand on him.” Gordon tipped his head toward the Shapeshifter’s forearm. “Just Turner’s.”

“Mind your own damn business.” John turned back toward the folding table.

“It’s my business when it’s _my_ money you’re pissing down the drain, Johnny boy.” Gordon gripped John’s shoulder, stalling him.

Frayed tempers caught fire; John swirled around on the spot, grabbing Gordon’s wrist and detaching his hold. That left John exposed for the retaliatory punch that caught him straight in the mouth, skidding him back a step.

A rush of rage colored Dean’s world and he sprang between the two men, giving Gordon a solid flat-handed shove to the chest the second he stepped after John. “Hey! Stay away from my dad, you son of a bitch!”

“ _Dad_?” Gordon echoed mockingly, his distended eyes widening further. “This is your _son_ , Johnny? And here I thought you couldn’t sink much lower; bringing your kid to the Pits? Are you selling him, too?”

Dean didn’t have to look to know his dad was rallying, and that he was furious. Dean threw out an arm, catching John across the chest before he could slip past and give this guy the beating he deserved. “Simmer down!”

John backed off a few steps, thrumming with visible rage.

“That Shifter’s not the only one who needs a leash.” Gordon said slyly.

“You wanna take this outside?” Dean shifted his attention back to Gordon, his tone just on the right side of a threat.

Gordon studied him, with the kind of cautious curiosity apparent in a man unsure of whether he was facing a hostile animal, or one that was all bark and no bite. Finally, he seemed to acquiesce to his own misgivings, tightened sinew loosening visibly in his wrists and forearms.

“No. I think I’m good. Thanks.” Gordon strode toward the slope of the parking garage, pausing abreast of Dean and couching his tone to a murmur. “When this is over? I’m taking that cherry ride of your daddy’s as payment for every debt he’s weaseled out of. And then I’m going to take the rest of it out of his ass.” His chin nearly brushed Dean’s collarbone when his head tipped around. “And if you stand in my way? If I ever see your punk ass on the circuit again? I’ll make you my bitch, too.”

A cunning, fierce smile ripped its way across Dean’s face. “Hn. That’s funny, y’know, ’cause that’s what your wife said to me this morning before I—”

Gordon’s elbow cracked against Dean’s chin, whipping his head back. Dean only lost a step of his ground, bringing up the heel of his hand to swipe the split that had opened in the dead center of the cleft on his jaw.

Gordon brushed past him, glancing off Dean’s shoulder hard enough to hurt, and this time he didn’t look back.

“Yeah, you better keep walkin’!” Dean spat the words after him.

John’s tone was careful when he said, “Dean.”

“ _What_?” Dean whirled around to face him, six degrees of rough edges buried under a black jacket and gray hoodie. John and Bobby were staring at him with unreadable expressions.

“Nothing,” John shook his head. “Let’s go.”

They accepted a laminate card from Crowley with their number on it, a bold **25** , and then they followed Gordon into the Pit.

The entire building had been gutted through the middle, leaving a few layers of balconies off what had once been six or seven stories of industrial hub. Right smack in the middle was the arena, more like a boxing ring than an actual Pit.

“This is a newer joint,” John explained, his mouth close to Dean’s ear. “Old Pits weren’t upraised, it made it too easy for a monster to get loose and take its frustrations out on a crowd.”

“Frustrations?” Dean echoed, half-yelling to be heard above the surfing boom of the crowd and the triple-magnified voice of the announcer.

“Monsters have to be starved, sometimes beaten, to force them into a fight.” John pulled Dean roughly to one side by his shoulder, out of the path of a wheeling cart heaped with the sloppy remains of _something_. “It’s not a pretty business.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” Dean wrapped one hand around a support beam he spotted through a break in the crowd, getting a leg up and perching precariously a head above everyone else.

The fight inside the arena was in full swing, monsters going at each other tooth and claw, buoyed up by the incessant screams around them. Dean caught a glimpse of one of them getting a faceful of razor-sharp talons before he lost his grip on the pole and dropped back onto the concrete floor. “Dude, this place is sick!”

“We’re here to work, not play games.” John motioned Bobby over. “Lower-class Pit-fights keep the identity of the Handler a secret, since money’s trading hands so fast. The Metradrome is a step up; we’ll be in our fighter’s corner.”

For someone who was so outspoken about keeping Dean clear of the fight, John wasn’t holding back much; not that Dean was complaining. He was soaking all of this up like a sponge, feeling it seeping into his skin, a heady rush of adrenaline by osmosis, blood flying in the air, his lungs burning with cigarette smoke.

“It’s hell up there, John.” Bobby cautioned.

“He can handle it,” John snatched the silver chain from Bobby’s hands and Dean turned to face them, realizing as he did that Bobby was staring at him with a look halfway between pity and amusement.

“Quit grinnin’ at me like that, it’s creeping me out.” Dean complained.

“Don’t be so sensitive, princess.” Bobby gave him a flat-handed shove after John, toward the arena. Dean caught up with John and fell into step with him.

“Hey, who was that dick back at the check-in?”

“Gordon Walker?” John was scanning the crowd, paying half-attention or less to Dean. “He’s a Handler outta Michigan. Human, like us, but you might say he blurs the lines sometimes. The man specializes in putting world-class vampires in the ring.”

“Fought him before?” Dean thumbed the cut on his chin; it was still stinging.

“We’ve crossed paths,” John said, and his tone closed the discussion. He laid a hand on Dean’s elbow to stop him, nodding up.

They were broadside to the fighting ring, a platform about five-and-a-half-feet raised and roped in with iron chains inlaid with silver. Some thick, dark waxy substance dripped onto the scuffed floor of the arena.

“Dead man’s blood.” John supplied when he caught Dean staring at the ooze.

“Right, right. Anti-vampire juice.” Dean rocked his head back when he heard the announcer declaring the match a wrap; the leftovers of a monster were carted off the stage with the crowd still raring for more. Infected with their bloodlust, Dean was right on John’s heels approaching the ring.

John shoved the Shapeshifter toward the arena’s steps, then followed him under the chains. Dean hung back, watching John converse with the announcer quietly for a minute, then turn to the Shapeshifter. With one tug, he loosened the chains, letting them circle on the ground. The crowd went wild, like that was just one more thing they needed to stir them into a frenzy. They were the sharks, the blood was in the water and there was no stopping it now.

“Come on.” John motioned Dean, heading into the corner before he hopped the chains and dropped back onto the floor. Dean slid off beside him, crossing his arms on the edge of the stage.

“So, what, that’s it? No coaching the guy, no pep-talks?”

“Most monsters won’t need it,” Bobby appeared out of the crowd, smoothing his hair down and settling his trucker’s cap back onto his head. “They been raised in the life just as long as you’ve been pullin’ air, boy. Some of ’em longer than that.”

“They’re trained to fight. There’s no shade of gray, no ultimatum,” John agreed. “Win a fight, or die trying.”

Dean let his gaze move through the crowd, as diversified as the monsters they were watching. “See any demons?”

“No, but they’re here, all right.” John replied grimly. “Crowley’s one of theirs. If he’s here, they must be.”

Dean shifted against a crawling feeling on his spine and focused on the announcer who was booming John’s name across the building: “Ladies and gentlemen, right here from our very own backyard, Lawrence, Kansas—a Hunter-turned-Handler, riches-to-rags story,” The words brought on a storm of jeers that made Dean’s stomach churn with fury. “John Winchester, bringing you—a _Shapeshifter_!”

That turned the taunts into cheers, but not fast enough to bring back Dean’s good mood. He kept his arms folded, hunching forward. Bobby gripped his shoulder.

“Buncha drunk yahoos.” He said sympathetically.

“It’s fine.” Dean shrugged him off, shooting a sideways look at John. His face was a stoic mask.

“In the opposing corner, we have, from Seattle, Washington in the cold up-north…a fresh face on the circuit, Drey Owens!”

A brawny man in his late thirties hopped the chains, bringing in a half-transformed _something_ that looked human except for its slit-pupil eyes.

“Kitsune.” Bobby muttered.

The preliminary rounds were a whirlwind, the Shapeshifter coming out tops in every fight; Rufus Turner’s training paid off in spades. Dean felt the stitch of worry in his chest ease up, a grin working its way onto his face. In terms of big-name fights, this was a pretty good way to start his experience; they were in the lead, closing in on the Duchess, who was knocking out the competition every other fight. From where Dean was standing, it seemed like an even match.

Two hours, buckets of bloodshed and a toast to the games later, and the announcer, who was starting to sound hoarse, cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen. The fight we’ve all been waiting for: the highlight of the evening, our two champions pitted in a death match! In one corner, John Winchester’s lucky little fighter-that-could!” The applause was a little more enthusiastic this time; these people had been watching the Shapeshifter pluck limbs off of smaller monsters and toss them around like trash. They knew they were in for a good show. “And here from windy Big Rapids, Michigan, Midwestern Champion and Vamp-man extraordinaire, Gordon Walker and his prizefighter, the Duchess!”

Bobby cussed under his breath. John’s expression went from neutral to enraged for a split second, then smoothed over. Dean caught sight of Gordon standing on the opposite side of the stage, unhooking the muzzle off a vampire who looked like she was a little older than Dean. Her charcoal-black skin threw the light in a weird reflection off Gordon’s eyes; they caught Dean’s.

Dean spread his arms wide and curled his fingers over twice, mouthing, _Bring it_!

Gordon gashed a smile, dropping back down to floor-level.

With the vampire free and the Shapeshifter bouncing on the balls of his feet, there was no stopping it; the announcer didn’t have a second to call it before the two were going at each other in a tangled blur of crashing bodies. Dean had a front-row view of the violence as the vampire’s elongated, needle-sharp fangs left over two dozen pinprick holes in the Shapeshifter’s bicep; he came back at her with a right hook to the jaw that knocked her against the Dead Man’s Blood on the chains. She squealed.

“Take that, bitch!” Dean hollered.

John snagged his hood and yanked him back. “Would you at least try to be professional about this?”

Dean reclaimed the hood, moving out of John’s reach. “I am professional, the hell are you talking about? It’s called being invested in your investment, dad.”

“I’m going to invest in some duct-tape before I bring you with next time.”

Dean flashed him an aggravating grin and turned back just in time to see the Shapeshifter stomp the Duchess onto the floor; he took a punch to the thigh before he got her up by her throat and threw her skidding into the corner. She fetched up hard against the rail, coughing up her air. The Shapeshifter didn’t give her a second to breathe, pinning her down with her arms torqued behind her back. He picked her head up in one hand and slammed it onto the floor, then flexed his hand a hairsbreadth to the left and dislocated her right shoulder. Her scream was punctuated by an onslaught of rowdy cheers; the Shapeshifter slammed her head against the arena floor again and this time, earned a burst of blood from her mouth.

 Dean sucked his bottom lip between his teeth but even that wasn’t enough to beat down his smirk; Gordon was white-knuckling the edge of the stage across from them, leaning forward like he was going to jump in and stop the fight, his eyes sizzling holes into the vampire.

She was looking back at him.

Dean tilted his head.

The Duchess bucked her weight up against the Shapeshifter’s knee, which was pinning the small of her back; he unbalanced and she slithered out of his hold within seconds, using just her good arm, winging around behind him and hooking her teeth into his throat.

“No, no, no!” John snarled, his hands fisting so tightly his knuckles jutted out. Dean threw a desperate look toward Bobby as the Shapeshifter wrenched free of the vampire’s hold. He was losing blood in a torrent, one hand clapped to the wound on his neck as he circled the vampire, growing unsteady on his feet. She swiveled to follow him, her eyes narrowed against the harsh light.

She sprang with no warning, landing on the Shapeshifter’s chest. They pummeled back into the corner, quick bites from her fangs weakening the blows that he was aiming for her head. Dean slapped his flat hands down on the stage.

“Get out of that corner, get up, come on! Protect your friggin’ neck, she’s gonna murder you!”

“Too late,” Bobby said under his breath.

The vampire was moving fast, like a snake, plunging in and out, getting herself a few ringing blows to the skull but dealing out ten times what she was taking; until the Shapeshifter’s arm flopped onto the mat and twitched, then lay still.

The roaring of the room pulsed hollowly in Dean’s ears. He looked up at John, watched him rake his hands back through his hair and fold them on his neck, eyes closed, head tilted back toward the roof.

“Now might be a great time to make ourselves scarce.” Bobby slapped John soundly on the back and John’s eyes sprang open, leveling on Gordon.

“Bobby’s right. Dean, let’s go.”

Dean followed them, trailing a little slower, turning to glance back.

Gordon was watching them leave, and he didn’t seem too worried about collecting his money; he held two fingers to his eyes and then leveled them straight at Dean, clear, classic sign for _I’m watching you_.

Dean flipped him off.

 

-X-

 

The drive back to Lawrence was heavy, silent. John kept his window rolled down, heedless of the cold air, his bare arm resting on the windowsill. Bobby was mashed against the driver’s door, grumbling under his breath every few minutes. Dean, between them, rubbed his palms from his thighs to his knees almost non-stop; the adrenaline high from the fight hadn’t left him yet.

They pulled over at a mini-mart few miles from home for food; until he smelled the greasy aroma of microwaved hotdogs, Dean hadn’t realized he was hungry. He was following John toward the door when Bobby snagged his arm. “I don’t think so.” He popped the back door of the van with his free hand. “Take a seat.”

“What are you doing?” Dean asked carefully as Bobby stepped up into the bowels of the vehicle. He emerged again a few seconds later with a blue box in his hand.

“Relax, kid. First aid for that busted cleft of yours.” He poured a helping of anesthetic onto a pad of gauze and dabbed Dean’s chin.

“Ow,” Dean complained, but he didn’t flinch away, watching the bright lights from the mini-mart bounce off the gravel parking lot as the door opened and shut again. “You see the way that vamp looked at Gordon right before she took the Shifter down?”

“Musta missed it on account of watching our fighter get his ass handed to him like a turkey on Thanksgiving.” Bobby’s touch could’ve been a little gentler, but at least it wasn’t as rough as his voice. “Damn idjit move on John’s part. He’s makin’ a name for himself as a washout whose name ain’t good for the money he don’t have.”

“Tell me about it.” Dean said. “God, he should’ve listened to me.” He let his eyes flutter shut, sighed. “What now?”

“Now?” John’s voice arrived along with the crunch of his boots. “Now, nothing. Now we go home.”

Dean’s eyes popped back open and he sat up at attention, catching the bag John threw to him. He peeled it open and glanced inside, his delight changing to disbelief. “A salad. You got me a _salad_?”

“Your mother always fed you those.”

Dean stuffed the bag behind the closed door of the van, grimacing. “I hate salad.”

“You wanna walk your ungrateful ass home?” John barked, and Dean met his eyes defiantly. “Eat your _damn_ salad, Dean.”

He climbed back in the passenger seat without another word, slamming the door hard enough to rock the entire van.

“Isn’t he a bucket of sunshine.” Bobby tossed the gauze pad into the nearest garbage can. “Let’s hit the road.”

They hadn’t gone far, maybe another quarter mile up the road, before John spoke, keeping his head turned toward the open window. “Just drop us at the house and be on your way, Bobby.”

It sounded a little formal, but Dean didn’t really question the request until Bobby said, “Something I should know about?”

John drummed his fingers on the top of the window. “There’s a Snatcher nest about an hour from the house. I’m thinking it’s my best bet.”

“You lost your sane mind, John?” Bobby’s voice filled the cab and Dean sat up straighter.

“Snatcher nest?” He echoed.

“Illegals. People who steal fighters or buy up broke-down ones and pawn ’em off like they were brand new.” Bobby leveled a glare onto John. “Your daddy seems to be forgettin’ he doesn’t have the money to haggle with a Snatcher.”

“Not haggle.” John’s voice was rigid.

Dean said, softly, “Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”

 

-X-

 

Twenty minutes later, they were parting ways with Bobby, John and Dean heading south while Bobby went north.

Dean hadn’t seen the Impala in twelve years; and he wasn’t ashamed to admit she was the part he’d missed the most. The minute her headlights cut on, sweeping a glare across the grass, Dean’s insides had rearranged themselves and he couldn’t resist running a hand over the hood and roof, feeling that sleek shine she radiated like black diamonds.

“Oh, baby, I missed you.”

“She looks good, doesn’t she?” John’s voice had been clipped, but at least he’d been making conversation.

“Better than. She doesn’t look a day older.” Dean had slapped an affectionate hand on the trunk. “And I’m not just sayin’ that, sweetheart.”

Bobby had left them without any more warnings, just a glare for John and a clap on the side of the neck for Dean. It was warning enough; Dean didn’t know much about Snatcher camps, but he could suss out enough to know they were walking into something dangerous, maybe even more dangerous than the fight.

Right now, Dean couldn’t bring himself to be worried; he was too absorbed in the Impala’s purr running through the backs of his knees, up into his spine. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

“Think Gordon knows where to find us?”

“No, but he’s a tracker. I’ll stay on the move, keep him away from you and Mary.” John said, keeping his gaze straight forward.

“Oh. Nice of you to ask me, y’know, if I wanna help out.”

“You’re already more involved than I ever wanted you to be, and the only reason I’m taking you to this Snatcher nest is because Mary would raise hell and kick my ass to the curb if I dropped by the house right now. And I don’t have that kinda time. Easier to take you along and hold off on that lecture.”

Dean’s mouth wrinkled down; that was a valid point. “So, why Snatchers? Why not find some other Handler to trade with, or something?”

“You don’t get it, Dean.” John said flatly. “All I got is this car, the house, you, and your mother. I have _nothing left_ to trade with.” He slanted a glance toward Dean that was honest and open for the first time, and it made Dean feel like he was taking on part of a load he couldn’t carry. “I have no other choice. There’s no way to get the money we need in order to survive if we don’t fight, and we can’t fight if we don’t get ourselves a monster that can last more than one _damn_ night!” He slapped the flat of his hand on the steering wheel.

They drove for a while in silence. Then John cleared his throat.

“You called it.” He said. “Down to the money, you knew how that Shifter was going out. How’d you do that?”

It was Dean’s turn to evade, staring out the glass at the black landscape zipping by. “Not my first rodeo, I guess.”

“You’ve seen a fight before?” John’s tone was wrestling between parental displeasure and something that edged on interest.

“You could say that.”

“I _am_ saying that.”

“It’s no big deal.” He cleared his throat. “So, what’s the plan when we get to this place? Just walk up and ask for a monster?”

John snorted. “Smartass. You remember what I taught you about picking locks?”

“I’m not stupid. Yeah, I remember.”

“Good. I’ve driven past this place a few times, been in it once. They keep the best picks inside. Out back, there’s a run, looks like a boarding kennel for dogs. That’s where you’ll find the monsters who’re on their last legs, or slated for mercy-killing. We’ll each split up, take one of the rooms inside.”

Dean wondered how far off the mark Mary had been about the kind of life John was wrapped up in: dodging debts, dealing with Snatchers and now stealing from them. Dean had a record, but it was nothing as bad as that. It didn’t help that the demons were basically twisting everyone’s arms to walk them into this life.

They were all just along for the ride.

 “Sounds like a plan.” Dean nudged forward in his seat, amping himself up for the task. John flexed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Listen to me, Dean. You do your job and you get out of the area. Don’t stick around gawking. And if anything happens to me, you take the Impala and you get the hell out of there. Understand?”

“Oh, please. Don’t start with the whole ‘go on without me’ speech, all right? If I get the dry heaves from all this cheesy crap you’re throwing at me, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“This isn’t a joke. We don’t know what’s in there. If we go after the wrong monster, we’ll have more than just a struggle on our hands.” John hesitated, then added, “The monsters should be marked. The Snatchers keep them identified for their own safety, so they know what they’re up dealing with. But I want us prepared, too.”

“We are. We’re prepared. Now can we just drive? Please?”

John seemed to take that to heart, and didn’t say anything else until they reached the Snatcher nest; it was half-buried in the plains, at least two miles from the next house over. A low, sprawling compound with a fenced-in backyard, outdoor kennels and only one story high, it looked pretty simple in terms of general layout.

John climbed out first, Dean a second behind him. John tossed Dean the lock-pick kit. “Let’s see how well you remember.”

It was like training for hunting all over again; they crossed the black lawn, unable to risk the attention or clamor drawn by the headlights being left on. By the time they reached the covered porch of the Snatcher nest, Dean’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness; he took a knee beside the doorknob, pulling out the two halves of the kit and sliding them neatly into the keyhole.

John was beside him, quiet and vigilant, scanning the yard; Dean saw him reach back after a few seconds, drawing a long-barreled gun with a curved grip from the waistband of his jeans.

“What the hell good is that gonna do?” Dean hissed.

“Just do your damn job.” John spat back, eyes still roving the darkness.

A few seconds later, Dean heard the satisfying _click_ of the tumblers falling into place. He gripped the knob and twisted it, sliding the door in.

A fist flew out of the shadows, aiming for his face. Dean dropped onto his back with a grunt to dodge it and John took his place, grabbing the offending hand, bending it back and stepping over Dean, into the foyer. Dean launched to his feet just in time to see John pin the nightguard against the desk and kick his legs out from under him, slamming his head into the edge of the counter hard enough to knock him unconscious.

John wiped an arm across his forehead. “Let’s make this quick.”

Dean nodded, edging around the slack body of the Snatcher and grabbing a clipboard off the desk. He scanned it with his eyes. “Inventory.”

“Smart.” John tested the knob of the door on the left side of the room. “Get his keys, Dean.”

“Get ’em yourself.” Dean kept scanning the list. “Hey, the list says they have a Manticore. You think that’s legit?”

John slapped the clipboard down, meeting Dean’s gaze furiously. “Keys. Now.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” He shoved the clipboard against John’s chest, grabbed the keys off the guard’s belt and tossed them into John’s waiting hands.

“Where did this attitude come from, huh?” John demanded, turning to the door and testing out the keys successively in the lock. 

“It’s my natural charm.” Dean went back to reading the inventory, glancing up when he heard the door click open. John hooked the keys into his pocket and faced Dean.

“Clipboard.” Dean handed it over and John flipped the page, scanning the neatly-ordered list of monsters who were penned in that particular room. “All right, here’s how we’re going to do this. You take the keys and take that room,” He nodded to the opposite door. “And watch your back. Snatchers are belly-crawlers and there’s every possibility they have a hidden alarm somewhere. We might have tripped it already. If you hear anything, see _anything_ , you just call me.”

“Yeah, ’cause I really need you to come save me if something goes _bump_.” Dean muttered.

John ignored him. “It looks like they have a Wraith. I’m gonna check it out.” He handed the clipboard back and slipped into the room, toeing the door part of the way shut. Dean blew air out through his lips in a loud, wet smack and started thumbing down the papers on the clipboard. It didn’t look like there would be anything interesting through the other door; a couple vampires, a black dog. So that Wraith was their best bet.

Stealing from stealers was a pretty risky business, Dean mused. A lot of work to go to just for a washed-up Wraith.

That Manticore, though…

Dean checked around the corner; John was making his way between rows of cages, looking for the Wraith, reading off the tags on every meshed enclosure he passed. Dean slid a glance toward the nest’s entrance, then sidled along the wall toward the back door.

A burst of cool night air hit his face when he slid the bolt open and stepped out into the night. The backyard looked exactly like John had described it: dog-like kennels full of huddled black masses, a couple crates of what looked like food, maybe, stacked in front of them; and then a wide open space lined with stacked cinderblocks leading up to a barbed wire fence.

“Fancy digs,” Dean muttered sarcastically, reading down the clipboard. “All right, Manticore, Manticore…A-6?” He glanced at the cages lining the wall of the building on his left and right. “Great, which one is _A-6_?”

He picked the row on his right and edged that way, but he couldn’t squeeze between the first cage and the boxes without getting his chest stuck. “Son of a bitch.” Dean pulled back and headed around the boxes.

It was quiet enough—no crickets chirping, no night-birds calls, nothing—that Dean heard the tinny _zip_ sound when his foot came down outside the shelter of the roof hanging over the cages. His mind had half a second to register, _Trip-wire_ , and all of the air rushed out of his lungs with an electric sensation of, _NO,_ as his foot began its descent that would alternate his balance and engage the device.

A hand shot out of nowhere, twisting between meshed cage bars, snagging the back of his shirt.

And Dean was hanging there, one foot holding the tripwire in place, and the hand on his jacket the only thing keeping him from overbalancing and snapping the cable clean loose. He slid his eyes sideways as far as he possibly could, and sure enough there was a small green ball no bigger than his fist wedged into the chinks in the cinderblock wall, the wire under his boot anchored into the pin.

 _Grenade_.

Cold sweat broke out on the back of Dean’s neck. “Okay, okay, keep it together.” The fist on his jacket tightened, almost like a reassurance, but Dean ignored it. Couldn’t think about that right now. “Dad?”

His call was met with grumbles from the cages around him, monsters stirring restlessly. For his part, Dean wasn’t sure if the one holding on to him wanted to anchor him in place or yank him back and eat him.

No sign of John.

“ _Dad_?” Dean’s tone pitched the word into a question and punched through a few octaves. His leg was starting to wobble, and if it moved beyond a certain point, that wire was going to slip out from under his heel and pull the pin.

Running bootsteps echoed from the building behind him. “ _Dean_?”

His heartbeat flushing in his ears, Dean took a few steadying breaths. “Look, can we, uh, save the lecture?” He pointed to his left. “Grenade. Trip-wire.”

“To keep people from hopping the fence and breaking in the back door.” John swore, his steps approaching much more slowly now. “Dean. Listen. You’re inside the blast radius of the grenade. If I can get around you, I can hold the pin in place—”

“Steel wire. If it snaps, it’s gonna cut your fingers off.” Dean puffed out a laugh. “Plan B?” Silence. “Dad? _Plan B_?”

The hand on Dean’s jacket flexed, helping to steady him.

“Dean.” John’s voice was closer, nearly at his shoulder. “I want you to turn around and grab my arm, and I’ll take care of the rest. Hear me, son? We can do this.”

Dean’s tongue swiped his top lip. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Turn around. Just your upper body. Do it slowly.”

Dean obliged, twisting, giving himself sideways view of a wiry hand, scuffed knuckles half-buried in the folds of Dean’s jacket. His gaze flew up the arm, to the shadowy figure on the other side of the cage.

“Dean!” John’s voice broke slightly. “Focus.”

Dean sucked in a breath that seemed to burn like fire down his throat, into his lungs, and he swung his arm up, toward John’s.

His hand connected with John’s sleeve in the same instant his foot left the tripwire. The fist in Dean’s jacket threw him backwards at the same moment John heaved with his weight. They went sprawling, the night lighting up in a globe of fire as cinderblocks, slats of wood and crates were blown across the yard. Dean slammed down on his shoulder half-tucked into the curve of John’s body, both of them sliding back into the doorway with John swinging his jacket up to shield them.

Debris rained down for endless minutes in a comet storm, acrid smoke filling Dean’s lungs. It felt like they’d been lying there, half-in the nest, for close to an hour before John tossed the edge of his coat back and sat up.

“Dean. Deano!” His hands cupped the sides of Dean’s neck. “Y’all right? Look at me! _Are you all right_?”

“I’m good, I’m good.” Dean coughed on cinder dust, shoving John’s hands away. “Hell of a…security system.”

“We need to leave. _Now_. Before someone comes to investigate.” John pulled himself to his feet and half-limped into the nest. Dean got as far as his hands and knees before he doubled over, gripping his injured shoulder and glancing back.

The yard was rutted, massive clumps of grass torn up, dirt tossed everywhere. The door of the nearest kennel had buckled inward, dented where one of the crates had smashed into it.

Dean shoved himself upright, wiping his mouth on his wrist and staring at the dark shape he could still see in the light from small, smoldering chunks of wood that had blasted off the corner of the building.

He pushed the flat of his palm against the cage bars. “Can’t say I’m used to having a monster save my tail.” He checked the door of the cage; the tag on it had no identifying traits. No listing for what this thing was. “What the hell are you?”

The figure inside moved, sliding into a spray of moonlight, and Dean’s gut bottomed out. It didn’t have any immediate monster traits; no weird reflecting eyes, no fangs. It looked like a kid, maybe twenty, shaggy chestnut hair and wide hazel eyes. Staring up at Dean with an expression of guarded interest so utterly human, it put Dean off his guard. This thing didn’t come off like a monster; more like a human caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, scuffed knuckles and mud splattered like freckles across his face. Blood stained the front of his dirty white t-shirt, crusted around a gash on his chest that peeked dully from a slit in the filthy fabric.

“All right, that’s it, I’m getting you outta here.” Dean slammed his boot into the door and it crunched in easily; the tag fell on the floor, flipped over to reveal a word scrawled in huge black block letters on a white triangle. Dean picked it up and stretched his other hand into the cage. “Come on, let’s blow this joint, scruffy.”

The kid gripped Dean’s arm and Dean heaved him over the wreckage of the door, catching him when he almost doubled over on the furrowed grass.

“Whoa, easy there.” Dean braced a hand right above the gash in the kid’s chest and got that hair-raising feeling that always came on when he was around someone who was feverish. He reconsidered the idea that the glassy eyes were just because of interest. “Man, you’re toasty.” Dean didn’t miss the fact that he was almost supporting both of their weights already, after the kid had been on his feet for less than a minute.

All he got in reply was a small, soft grunt of pain.

“Dean!” John was back, high-stepping over the rubble, his wide eyes finding Dean in the dim light—then narrowing, accusing. “This is not time to pick up strays.”

“You wanted your monster? You got him.” Dean snapped. He slung the kid’s arm over his shoulders and half-dragged him toward the door, slapping the laminated white card onto John’s chest in passing.

The moonlight glanced off the glossy face of the card and threw the name into sharp contrast as John flipped it over and read it:

 _SAM_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four: Unknown Origins 

 

            John drove with one eye pinned to the rearview mirror.

            This stray charity-case of Dean’s—Sam, by definition of the tag from his cage—didn’t look like any fighter John had seen. In fact, he looked like the farthest thing from battle-ready that John had ever laid eyes on. From the second Dean had bundled him in the backseat, the boy hadn’t moved; he was half-curled against the Impala’s rear door, his head resting on the armrest, seeming oblivious to the edge of the ashtray digging into his cheek. His eyes stared straight ahead at the seatback, and he held incredibly still.

            John glanced over at Dean, noticed him kneading his shoulder with a grimace.

            “You hurt your shoulder?” He asked, his gruff voice filling the car.

            “I’m fine.” Dean grunted, dropping his hand.

            John swallowed a wash of bile-bitter irritation. Dean had been nothing but a burr in his side for the better part of the day; less than twenty-four hours he’d had his son back in his life, after twelve years apart, and he couldn’t count the number of times since the fight alone that he’d wanted to beat some semblance of respect into him. Dean was teetering on out-of-control belligerence, on that dangerous line toward total rebellion.

            A thin, misting rain started to fall; John flicked on the windshield wipers. “I take it he’s not your Manticore.”

            “Does he look like one?” The words were a biting challenge, but Dean’s voice lacked any real punch. He turned his face toward the window. “He’s just some kid who saved my life.”

            “Not a kid. A monster.” John replied.

            “Well, whatever the hell he is, I think he’s pretty sick. Some infection or something. I wasn’t just gonna leave him.”

            John heaved out a breath. That was the Mary in him talking, the side that was always looking for a way to do right by everyone. “Fine. We take him back to the house, get him patched up, figure out what he is, and we get him into a fight.”

            “After that fever wears off, right?” It sounded less like a question and more like an invitation for John to agree and head off another argument. He was bone-weary, wretched over losing a fight that Bobby had six grand staked in, and facing the grim prospect of being without a fighter and having no Snatcher nest within fifty miles to raid.

            “We’ll see.”

            Dean rocked his hips on the seat, turning himself around for a look into the back. “How old d’you think he is? Nineteen? Twenty?”

            _I don’t care_ , was John’s initial reaction. But it was topic they didn’t have to trade angry words over, so he followed Dean’s gaze by way of the mirror, again. “Twenty, at the youngest. Maybe twenty-one.” He propped his temple on his fist and his elbow on the windowsill. “We’ll have to test him with everything we’ve got: iron, silver, bronze. Every trick and trade in the book.”

            “I know the drill.” Dean tucked his knees under the dashboard and slouched in the seat, his chin sinking onto to his chest. “Think he can win us a fight?”

            John didn’t think he was imagining a glint of hope in Dean’s voice. He lifted one hand from the steering wheel with the intention of ruffling Dean’s spiky hair; thinking better of it, he dropped his palm to his thigh. “Hope so, Deano.”

            “Quit calling me that.”

            It was after sunrise when they pulled up to the house, and the prospect of his bed made John’s chest feel considerably lighter; until he remembered Mary had the bed, and he’d be relegated to the couch. Still, sleep, a blanket, a pillow for just a few hours. It was exactly what he needed to put his thoughts in alignment again.

            The horizon was washed through in slits of pinkish gold as the headlights cut a sweep up to the front porch where Mary stood illuminated, wrapped in a bathrobe, head hunched down against the cold.

            Dean cussed under his brother. “She’s gonna kill me.”

            “She’ll kill us both.” John shut off the car and climbed out. “Might think about using that monster as a shield.”

            “Har, har.” There was a catch of doubt in Dean’s voice as he levered himself out of the car. “Just stay back for a second.”

            Hands jammed into his pockets, he crossed the yard toward the porch. Mary descended the steps in a fluster of fluffy bathrobe edges and John didn’t think he was imagining the stormcloud that had entered her eyes.

            “Hey, mom.” Dean’s voice carried through the predawn quiet, low and disarming.

            Mary didn’t slap him, not like any normal mother would.

 She backhanded him.

            “You went to a fight.” Unlike Dean, she was doing nothing to control her voice. “After everything that’s happened, after _everything_ we talked about, you took the very first opportunity to follow your father straight into that life.”

            She cut John a look so furious, his throat felt suddenly dry. The woman could turn streams to sand with one boiling glance.

            Dean rubbed at the glancing spot on his stubbled cheek where Mary had struck him. From a distance, John could see he looked taken aback, but far from contrite. “Mom, it’s not what it looks like.” He paused, then added sheepishly, “Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like, but I can explain.”

            “Don’t. Just…don’t speak.” Mary closed her eyes for a brief moment, then opened them wide and sniffed. “Do I smell smoke on your clothes?”

            “It’s no big deal,” Dean said restlessly.

            “Dean!” Mary grabbed his shoulder and John saw him wince, her fingers digging into the sorest part of his arm. Mary let go immediately, sliding her hand down to his wrist instead. “Honey, what happened?”

            “It’s a long story,” John interceded, and regretted it almost immediately. The full and brutal force of Mary’s anger fell on him instead.

            “Don’t say anything, John. You and I have _nothing_ to say to each other. You dragged my son into this, after all your promises. How can I trust you?” She folded her arms. “Take the car and just go.”

            The fact that this was _his_ house aside, John stood his ground. “I would, but we’ve got a stray.”

            Dean’s eyes flickered with annoyance.

            “A stray…a stray, what, exactly? Your fighter?” Mary infused the word with an impressive amount of loathing.

            “Not exactly.” Dean scratched the back of his neck. “Look, mom, we ran into some, uh…some trouble, and this guy, I don’t know who the hell he is, but he saved my ass.”

            “Language.” Mary chided. “So it’s not a monster?”

            “Oh, it’s a monster, all right.” John replied darkly. “We just don’t know its origins. _Yet_.”

            Mary held up both hands in an assuming gesture. “So take it with you, John. It’s your responsibility.”

“Dean picked it up.” John protested.

“Look, do we really need to argue about this?” Dean snapped. “Can it wait? ’Cause we’ve got this sick, _whatever-it-is_ in the back of the car.”

Mary swept her ashy-blonde hair from her eyes. “Show me.”

            Dean led her to the Impala, popping the back door and stepping out of Mary’s way. John joined them, more as a protective measure than anything, watching as the monster scooted away from the door. Dressed in nothing but a thin white shirt and filthy gray pants, he really did look like a roadside charity case.

            Mary crouched with one hand on the foot-well of the car. “Does he have a name?”

            “Card on his door said ‘Sam’.” John offered. “Could be a name, could be an acronym for his species.”

            “He looks about as dangerous as a puppy.” Mary’s voice was quiet and she stretched out a hand. Sam moved away, his back pressing against the door. Mary pulled back with a frown. “Avoidance gestures, submissive posture, resistance to touch…all clear signs of past abuse.”

            John glanced down at her, surprised. “So, you did pursue the therapist career.”

            “It didn’t last long.” Mary’s reply was absentminded, her focus on the monster. “Sam? You look like you don’t feel so good. Do you want our help?”

            Sam’s attention was riveted on the seatback again, his shaggy hair hiding his eyes.

            “Just pull him out, we can deal with him better in the open.” John growled; he was too exhausted to wait for this thing, to decide they were worth the trouble.

            “Look, I didn’t have a problem with him earlier. Let me try.” Dean tugged on Mary’s shoulder, shifting her out of the way. He leaned one hand on top of the car and ducked his head into the backseat. “Hey, pal, c’mon, it’s colder than a well-digger’s backside in January out here. I know you probably can’t feel it with the way you’re burnin’ up, but it’s gonna get a lot worse if you stay out here.”

            Sam’s eyes slid sideways, finding Dean in the semi-darkness. John saw Mary tilt her head, observing carefully.

            After a few minutes in which John felt increasingly tired and increasingly irritated, Dean stepped back. Sam crawled out of the backseat and stood, hunched slightly and rubbing one arm in a spasmodic gesture, avoiding their eyes.

            “God, he must be at least forty pounds underweight.” Mary had adopted that mothering tone reserved for Dean at his most ill. “We need to get him inside.”

            “No.” John interceded firmly. “I’m not letting that _thing_ into my house. I may be a Handler, but I have my boundaries, and this is one of them.”

            “He could _die_ , John.”

            “As far as I can tell, he’s not worth the resources it would take to make him well enough for a fight. If he’s even _built_ to fight!” John glared at the monster that had sunk down against the car, still rubbing its arm.

            “You’re the one who gave me the ride about hitting rock bottom.” Dean snapped. “Y’know what happens next? You grab a shovel. Or you suck it up and start climbing.”

            John looked between the two of them—Dean, the planes of his face hardened with stubbornness, Mary with her arms cinched at her waist and one eyebrow up in an expression that just _dared_ him to continue the argument.

            “This isn’t over.” John pointed to Dean, then turned and stormed across the lawn, taking the porch steps at a jog and shoving the door open.

            The house smelled like coffee and Mary’s perfume. John inhaled the scent, letting it seep into his pores and calm his agitated nerves. He lingered in the doorway, watching Mary approach with Dean trailing behind her, the monster’s arm across his shoulders.

            The kid really did look underfed.

            John dropped onto the foot of the couch and unlaced his boots, shucking them into a corner and shrugging out of his jacket. He was loosening his belt when they came in, three people as silent as death. Mary nodded to the stairs and Dean shifted Sam’s weight against him and started walking.

            The foot of the stairs was where everything fell apart.

            Sam twisted violently in Dean’s hold, almost like he’d been handed a venomous snake. The action in itself wouldn’t have been a problem; except that Dean’s arm was already injured. Dean lost his grip on Sam and slammed into the wall, grabbing for his hurt shoulder with his face contorted into a rictus of pain, and John’s temper exploded.

            He didn’t feel himself rise, or step forward, didn’t feel his fist connect with Sam’s face until his knuckles cracked against a jutting cheekbone. And then Sam was on the floor at his feet and the room was dead quiet except for Dean’s staggered breaths. Mary had both hands clapped to her mouth.

            Sam’s hand cupped his cheek, his wide wet eyes focused on John completely.

            “He didn’t do anything wrong, dad.” Dean’s voice was quiet, for once. “He just panicked. Who knows what he’s been through?”

            John swiped his bruised knuckles against his leg, not sure why he felt ashamed until he spared all of his attention for Sam, and realized that there was no visceral, cagey animal reaction. Just a saturation of fear and a kind of submissive respect.

            “Get him out of here.” John turned toward the couch.

            It turned into a battle of wills within minutes; Sam pressed himself into the corner beside the kitchen door and gave the stairs that same wild-eyed look of panic that he’d first had when he’d escaped Dean’s hold. John watched Mary try in vain to coax Sam out while Dean looked on, ever-increasing frustration mounting in his eyes; John considered joining in, then decided he’d already done enough harm. He rolled over onto his side, facing the back of the couch with his head pillowed on his arm, and let his eyes slide shut.

            He dreamed in bloody washes and clawmarks and pain. John hadn’t slept well in months, when he let himself sleep, his dreams always haunted and invaded by glimpses of the reality he would be plunged back into as soon as he woke: monsters tearing each other’s throats, sleek black eyes, the stench of a Pit.

            Tonight, there was a whole new layer to his nightmares; some faceless creature ripping Mary’s heart from her chest. Blood, John found, didn’t obey any aerodynamic laws or gestures. It coated the walls in a tapastral spread, a silent question in slick palms. _Don’t you like this, John? This is wallpaper, this is your home_ ; he chased the branches of her blood down a swaying hallway, twisting into Dean’s room to find that same sleek, engorged monster dragging Dean from his bed and gutting him, a younger Dean than the man that had come home. Dean’s screams, _Dad, don’t let it kill me! Dad, please_! While John was frozen, _frozen,_ and watching the monster finger-paint the floor with Dean’s entrails; until John realized that _he_ was the monster, with his fist crushing Dean’s insides into powder.

            John stirred awake with a brief, hard breath, rocking his head off his arm; with the sleepy haze coloring his vision, it took him a moment to find his bearings. The sunlight was still a low-lying strip slanting through the window, but the angle had changed. Sometime while he had been sleeping, someone—Dean or Mary—had spread a dusty blanket over him. Twisting it in his hands, John shifted his bulk on the narrow couch and turned his head to the side.

            He was startled when he caught a glance of unfamiliar eyes near the foot of the stairs. Sam was sitting, hardly breathing, with his legs outstretched and his hands resting flat on the rug. His gaze was riveted on John.

            “You got something that needs saying?” John’s voice was a rumble, much less aggressive than he’d meant it to be, still hashed down with lethargy. Very slowly, Sam shook his head. “So, you can understand English.” That narrowed down the possibilities of origin by several dozen. “Where’s Dean? He’s supposed to be keeping an eye on you.”

            “I am.” The voice came from the kitchen, heralding Dean’s entrance with a cup of coffee and red-rimmed eyes oiled by bloodvessels bursting from eyestrain. “Mom thinks he’s got an infection, but he’s not letting us touch him.”

            “So, you hold him down.” John scrubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “He’s a monster, Dean. He’s not a pet. You can’t coddle him.”

            “You said it yourself, we don’t know what the hell he is.” Dean rasped. “So until we do, I’m giving him his space.”

            It was strange, John realized, to be sitting here, trading barbs about Sam while he sat right there and did nothing to join in the conversation.

            “He still won’t take the stairs?” John asked, and Dean shook his head. “He’s already turning into more trouble than he’s worth. Just put him out in the shed.”

            Dean’s eyes traveled over Sam, in his ratty shirt and threadbare pants. “He’s gonna freeze his ass off out there.” Dean tossed back the coffee in one swallow and motioned to Sam. The kid monster got to his feet without a word of protest and trailed after Dean like he’d been bred to do it. For all they knew, he had been.

            John wadded the blanket on the foot of the couch and trudged into the kitchen; the coffee pot was empty. He flipped through the cabinets without much hope, knowing he hadn’t eaten in-house for weeks. In an effort to put his vivid dreams behind him, John reflected on the chaos of the night, with the fight and the events that had followed, and with every passing second his irritation grew, prickling at his skin.

            He didn’t move from his post beside the sink, staring out the window toward the street when Dean came back in, stamping his feet and blowing warmth into his hands. He came into the kitchen with his teeth still chattering slightly. “Mom’s upstairs trying to find antibiotics in her stuff.”

            John turned to face him, finding Dean’s eyes in the dim light. “You ignored a direct order back there.” He lifted his chin toward the door. “And now we’ve got a real problem on our hands.”

            Dean’s forehead furrowed. “What, have you been saving the lecture?”

            “Dean, we don’t know anything about him. We don’t know if we can control him or if he’ll turn on us. Hell, it’s a real possibility he’s not even sick, that he’s just trying to find a chink on our armor that he can slide into.”

            Dean shrugged. “I’d be one handsome blood-and-guts stain on the wall back at that nest if it wasn’t for him. I figure we owe the kid something.”

            “We’re humans. We don’t owe these monsters _anything_.”

            “Is that how you skate by on throwing them into fights you know they can’t win?” Dean leaned his uninjured shoulder against the doorpost, crossing his arms.

            “Watch your tone, Dean.”

            “No, _you_ watch it.” Dean’s eyes shone with fury. “When I was a kid, I let you pull me out of school so we could drive up to Bobby’s for training. I spent summers up there when I coulda been picking up chicks or doing sports.”

            “I let you keep that guitar, didn’t I?” John rejoined.

            “Yeah, ’cause it was something I could do in the backseat between states. I was in the hunting thing ever since I was a kid, and then when you decided that wasn’t gonna work anymore, you just dropped me on my ass and left me out in the cold. Let’s face it, dad, my childhood was hell in _your_ little hand-basket. And when you and mom decided to split, I took care of her. Just like you said, right? Just like you told me to.” Dean crossed to the table and leaned his flat hands on it, studying the stained surface for a minute before he looked up, his expression briefly unguarded. “I’ve given everything I ever had. I just…want this one thing.”

            John studied him, not through a lens of frustration or anger but with patience and, as best he could, as a father rather than as a stranger.

            “Why does this monster matter to you?”

            Dean blinked, and just like that the shutters on his expression slammed shut. “Maybe I’ve been a hardluck case long enough to know the look.” He pushed away from the table. “Need to chew my ass out anymore?”

            John choked down a growl. “Just go, Dean.”

            Dean went without another word. John pulled out a chair and dropped into it, rubbing his forehead.

            It was going to be an interesting few days.

 

-X-

 

            It went unspoken, but Dean and Mary didn’t leave.

            They didn’t unpack, either. There were other, subtler signs that they would be staying. The day after the fight, John came in from changing the Impala’s oil and found the change from a hundred dollar-bill on the table, and Mary unloading several bags of groceries onto the counter.

            “You know your electricity is shut off?” Mary asked.

            “That happened a few months ago, s’why I bought that battery powered coffee-maker.” John gestured to the device, wedged under the low cabinet. “It’s about on its last legs, too. What’s all this?” John leaned against the door, watching her work.

            “It looks like you won’t be fighting for a while,” She didn’t spare him a glance as she slid two jars of applesauce in to the nearest cabinet. John found it interesting in an ironically painful way, that after all these years she still remembered exactly how they used to keep the place organized. “So I thought you’d appreciate something other than diner food.”

            John picked up a can of spaghetti sauce and stared at it; he tried and failed to remember the last time he’d had anything that didn’t involve a microwave or a whole basket of napkins in order to consume.

            “It’s perfect, Mare.”

            There were other things: her toothbrush in the master bathroom. Dean’s jacket hanging on the banister, the one he only seemed to take off when he was asleep. John was flipping through a newspaper to keep tabs on the fights one morning when he heard the strains of _Hey Jude_ , played on an acoustic guitar, drifting down the stairs.

            Those were the easy things; there was still an air of resilient anger and defiance from both Mary and Dean that made them keep one step back from putting their roots down. Small, vitriol fights were the norm every day they crossed paths, mostly because they were avoiding the real issues: with Mary, it was resentment for Dean being present at a fight. With Dean, it was a little bit of everything.

            John didn’t see Sam; he knew that was for the best. Every night he laid out an arsenal of weapons that could be used to determine a monster’s breed, but he stopped himself short of going out to use them. Sam hadn’t fought his religation to the outdoors and it was sometimes easy to forget he was there. The few times John mentioned the tests in passing, Mary gave him a glower that could’ve burned a hole through a sheet of rock, and John let it drop, deciding it was better to bide his time.

Dean divided his time between helping Mary in the house and going out to the shed. At first, John thought he was trying to win a power-struggle with the skittish monster. Three days after they returned from the Snatcher’s nest, he walked out on Dean sitting with his back to the door of the small lean-to structure, one leg cocked his chest, not moving, not saying anything.

            “What’re you up to?” John called, glossing a hand over the Impala’s hood.

            “Waiting.”

            “For what?”

            Dean just shrugged.

            John was having a moderately good day; his clothes were clean, he’d slept with tolerable nightmares and for once, breakfast hadn’t been stale. He wasn’t ready to start a fight. “Listen, your mother’s making lunch. We’d like for you to join us.”

            Dean looked up, tapping his fingers on his kneecap. “Yeah, sure, all right.”

            And that was that; it was progress in that it wasn’t an argument. “Fifteen minutes,” John said, and went to join Mary in the kitchen.

            She was stacking sandwiches, slathering them with mayonnaise and mustard. John rolled up his sleeves and went to help, earning himself a succinct, “It’s fine, John, I can handle it.”

            He backed off, watching Mary as she slapped together bread and lunchmeat from the ice-filled cooler in the corner, and it was so domestic in a house that had been a ghost town for twelve years. It colored John’s entire world.

            “How long _aren’t_ we gonna talk about this, Mary?” He asked.

            “There’s nothing to say.” Mary’s tone was clipped as she pulled down three glasses, banging them on the counter and filling them with water.

            “I didn’t want him at that fight anymore than you did. But you’ve been with him for longer, Mary, you know what he’s like. Dean’s stubborn and he’s curious. He wanted to see what the fight was all about.”

            “Please, John. Really?” Mary swiveled around, bracing her hands back against the counter. “Dean wanted to be there with _you_ , with Bobby. He’s been drifting for years, he wants so badly to anchor himself to something. He absorbs everything to do with fighting because it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense to him.” She rested one hand on her throat, studying the dirty tiles on the floor. “ _That’s_ what scares me. He’s being forced into it just like you were.”

            “I won’t let that happen. As soon as I get a fighter who can win, we’ll turn this around, Mare. I know we can.”

            She smiled at him, not with antagonism but with something closer to pity. “You know who else believed that? My father. He always, always believed there was something out there that could change bad luck into something better.”

            “Maybe he was right.”

            Mary opened her mouth to reply, cutting off when the front door ricocheted inward, almost punching a hole into the plaster. “Dean!”

            “Don’t slam doors in this house.” John said, stepping into view of the living room; the reprimand lost its vigor halfway through when he saw the unease waxing full-force in Dean’s eyes.

            “It’s Sam.”

            John held his ground with casual indifference, but Mary had the opposite reaction, moving toward Dean. “Show me.”

            With a heavy sigh, John followed them.

            The door to the shed was partially ajar; Sam leaned against it, his legs tucked awkwardly under his body, his whole weight against the rotting wooden post. Even from halfway across the yard John could see the sweat sticking Sam’s shirt to his body, glistening on his skin. His hair was matted, streaked with straw from the shed and something gummy-yellow that looked like vomit.

            Mary knelt in front of Sam, all pretence of respectful distance gone, tilting his head back with her fingertips. His eyes found her face but didn’t focus.

            “What’s wrong with him?” Dean demanded. “Mom?”

            “His fever’s spiking.” Mary glanced up. “Has he eaten any of the food you’ve been leaving him?”

            “I dunno.”

            John craned his head into the shed, nose crinkling at the smell of wet, moldering food. “No, doesn’t smell like it.”

            “No more playing games. Dean, help him up.” Mary straightened, not waiting to see her orders answered. “Bring him upstairs.”

            She was gone, jogging back to the house. Dean put a hand on Sam’s chest to pull him up and earned himself reaction, just a faint tugging away from his grip. Dean hesitated and John clenched his jaw.

            “Pull it together and do your job.” He grabbed the front of Sam’s shirt and hauled him up, surprised for an instant by how lightweight he really was. “Take him to your mother. _Now_.”

            “I heard her!” Dean snapped, supporting Sam toward the house. John went ahead of them, opening doors, all the while feeling like he was investing his time in something that wasn’t worth it.

            On the way past the couch, his eyes fell on the toolkit laid out on the coffee table, knives catching a glimmer from the midday sun. After a moment’s hesitation, John grabbed the ends of the kit-cloth, folded them together and brought the whole assortment upstairs.

            Mary was already in the bathroom with the lukewarm water running, and Dean was just angling himself and Sam inside. Mary squatted with her hand under the jetting faucet of the tub and nodded. “Okay, Dean, very slowly, put him in.”

            John had no question about his own reaction: he would’ve all but dropped Sam into the bathtub. But Dean proved their differences again by sloshing into the ankle-deep spray and lowering Sam against the wall. He crouched beside him, the knees of his jeans dampening.

            “Can you help him?” Dean’s tone was flat, but his eyes betrayed investment. John felt a warning tinge in his chest.

            “Your father was right, we should’ve pushed him harder, so we could’ve treated him before this.” Mary cradled Sam’s head in her hands when his chin dipped down on his chest. “We’ll do what we can.”

            “First things first.” John sank to one knee beside her and unrolled the cloth full of knives and other various and sundry tools across the bathroom floor. Mary’s eyes caught the reflecting edge of a blade, and chilled.

            “No.”

            “This is our best chance.” John selected a bronze dagger. “He’s too weak to fight back. He’ll hardly feel it.”

            Dean nodded, strapping an arm around Sam’s thin chest.

            The first incision on Sam’s arm brought on a feeble thrash that sloshed the water into white-capped meringue. John felt Mary’s accusing eyes burning holes into his back as he waited for a sizzling of flesh or some other reaction that never came. He set the bronze knife aside and went for a silver one instead.

            By the fifth cut, this time with a black-glass blade, Sam had stopped struggling. He was half-slumped with his shoulder tucked into the curve of the bathtub, his hair feathering on the surface of the water; blood beaded down his wrist. John worked his way one tool after another, not even realizing he was feeling a distinct sense of worry bordering on panic until he reached the end of the kit and sat back on his heels, stunned.

            Sam hadn’t reacted to anything.

            “That’s impossible,” John growled, reaching for Sam’s arm to double-check the inconsequential injuries.

            He stopped, this thumb tracing the ridged skin next to the crease of Sam’s elbow. It had the scalloped texture of having been burned several times over, but the brand standing out now was charred and black and prominent. Just a name:

            _Lilith_.

            The word leaped into John’s senses, bringing on thoughts of smoky rooms, graceful steps, a flash of platinum-blond hair through a crowd. A taste of rotten things and saccharine sweetness, cherry-red lips against his.

            John dropped Sam’s arm into the water with an audible splash, tossing a slew of water over Dean’s knees.

            “What? What’s wrong?” Dean’s face dripped water from the shower’s spray, and he hadn’t let go of Sam’s shoulders, still propping him up.

            John took to his feet without answering, leaving them as Mary started to cup handfuls of tepid water over Sam’s neck. Thudding down the stairs, John grabbed his cell phone from his discarded leather jacket and dialed Bobby’s number.

            The call connected after the second ring. “Don’t know if I should be glad you survived or upset nobody taught your sorry ass a lesson.”

            “You can save that debate for later.”

            John’s tone seemed to alert Bobby; he could imagine the man sitting up straighter in his armchair, putting aside his peach cobbler. “Everything okay? How’s Dean?”

            “He’s on nursemaid detail with his mother.”

            “What, you pick up a baby deer off the side of a road?”

            “No. We’ve got a sick fighter on our hands.”

            “I’ll be damned, you actually managed to steal one?” Bobby’s tone tugged between disapproving and faintly impressed.

            “This…thing, whatever it is, it saved Dean’s life. Stopped him from tripping a grenade.” John waited for Bobby to swear at that gruesome image before he continued, “Bobby. None of the tests worked.”

            There was a pregnant pause. “You mean to tell me you got a _Faceless_ on your hands?”

            “Looks like.” John sank onto the couch, sliding a hand down his face and noting how badly in need of a shave he was. “That’s not even the best part. This Faceless used to belong to _Lilith_.”

            This time he could hear Bobby getting to his feet, kicking his chair back. “Lilith. As in _the Lilith_ , of Lilith, Lusiver and Azazel? The holy mother, queen-bee of the _demonic League_?”

            “How many other Liliths are on the circuit?”

            “Holy Moses, John.”

            “You could say that again.”

            “Where’d you find this thing, in a goldmine?”

            “Some Snatcher nest a few miles south. I don’t know, Bobby, could be the Snatchers stole him from a death-camp. Or Lilith was passing through these parts and pawned him off to the first willing hands.”

            “What are you gonna do with him?” Bobby sounded cautious.

            “What _can_ I do? Faceless means I don’t have any idea what he’s capable of. For all I know, he was a human punching-bag they let the real monsters hunt.” John rested one arm across his knees. “In any case, Mary’s taken a shine to him. We’ll patch him up and find out what he’s capable of.”

            “You be careful, y’hear me, idjit? Ain’t heard of a Faceless since Hunters ran things, and that was closing in on two hundred years ago, maybe more.”

            “You don’t have to give me the precautionary sermon, Bobby. I’m already on it.”

            “Good. Listen, I might drop by and take a look at this thing if I get a chance, see if anything I got can suss it out.”

            John felt an unexpected swell of gratitude; he’d cost Bobby six thousand dollars of good betting money, and he knew Bobby wouldn’t just swallow that loss or put his word where it didn’t have worth. He’d be paying in spades to Gordon Walker, and yet he was still batting for the Winchester team.

            “Take your time,” John advised, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. “I think Mary’s gonna put this thing on protective detail.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five: Feverdream

 

            Sam burned with fever for days.

            All Mary could call it was “touch and go”. They gave him the guest bed, with the temperature outside dipping into the low forties at night, dismissing the shed as an option. John didn’t say anything, but there was a smoldering cloud hanging over the house from the moment they brought Sam inside, and it seemed to be there to stay. For his part, Dean was trying to keep his temper in check; the thing that kept waking him up at night was a crushing weight of being responsible for something that couldn’t help itself.

            He mulled that over while he was lying on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head and the other draped over his stomach: responsibility.

            He’d been responsible for Mary since they’d left Lawrence when Dean was twelve, almost thirteen. Halfway to being a man, and suddenly there’d been this _weight_ on his shoulders: take care of mom, look out for her. That had worked only as far as the first time Dean had gotten the puking flu. After that, they’d shared the load. Dean had stepped in to fill the gaps John had left behind, and Mary in turn hadn’t leaned on him too hard, letting him get his feet under him.

            He still felt responsible: to protect her, to make sure she was taken care of. That dedication had landed him two steps from jail.

            This was different; he owed this kid something. Sam had literally pulled him out of the fire, but he wasn’t a load-bearer. With what little weight came just from accommodating him, he’d buckled underneath it like a reed in a hurricane. Something defenseless, something that couldn’t help itself…it was Dean’s job to sort him out, get him stable again.

            Dean checked the palm-sized, battery-powered clock on the floor beside his bed; the backlit black numbers signified it was three in the morning. Dean rolled out of the bed and shuffled down the hall, staying quiet to avoid waking either John or Mary: one downstairs, one upstairs. He ducked into the guest room and eased the door shut behind him.

            Not much had changed since Dean had given in to Mary’s insistence and tried to sleep five hours ago; Sam was still restless, caught up inside some fever-dream. His arm was lying on the bed, bandaged from the wounds John had inflicted but with the burn still peeking out from under the edge. Dean lowered himself onto the foot of the bed, picking up Sam’s arm for a look at that black smudge that had sent John into retreat.

            It was just a name, branded on Sam like the name of every Handler on every monster they owned. Just a name: Lilith.

            Not just any name.

            Dean gave Sam back his arm. “Dad’s right, I shoulda dragged your ass up those stairs the first day you got here.” Bracing one hand on the faded bedspread, Dean watched Sam’s face twitching in sleep. There was something else happening here, something deeper than wounds that didn’t blister no matter what knife was used. “What the hell are you, huh?”

            Mary had draped a wet rag on Sam’s forehead before she’d left, but at some point it had slipped off. Dean picked it up off the floor and twisted it into a rat’s tail, his thoughts taking on a life of their own.

            He didn’t understand how Mary could go from outright unbiased hatred of anything to do with fighting, to suddenly taking care of Sam like he was just some orphan off the street. John was right, this kid was a monster and there was a load on all of their shoulders to win at least one fight and recoup some loss.

            Dean settled the rag back onto Sam’s forehead, got to his feet and went downstairs.

            The light from a portable lantern threw a grainy circle onto the floor and shivered up the kitchen walls when Dean walked in, rubbing his arms. For whatever reason it wasn’t a surprise to him to see John still awake, poring over a newspaper at the kitchen table. Dean opened the fridge—force of habit—then started raiding the cabinets. He pulled out a box of Cheerios, poured himself a bowl and started trickling them in his mouth as he pulled out a chair.

            “Any cool obits?”

            “Betty White passed away.” John turned the next page with exaggerated slowness.

            “Bull. Everyone knows that lady’s immortal.”

            “God’s honest truth. She was gored by a narwhal.”

            “Wow, you’ve got this great poker face. I almost believe you.” Dean flicked a Cheerio into John’s lap just to annoy him. It had the desired affect, bringing John’s head swinging up.

            “Why are you even awake?”

            “Because I’m not sleeping.” Dean arched an eyebrow and tried to poke his tongue through one of the cereal pieces. “Mom’s down and out, so I figured I oughta check on Sam.”

            “And?”

            “He’s still out.”

            John grunted and went back to the paper. Dean didn’t ask what was bothering him, figuring if he bided his time, he’d found out anyway.

            Sure enough, John clapped a hand down on the paper a minute later, his expression stony. “There’s a big fight in St. Louis. Demons out there.” He shook his head. “ _Dammit_ , I should be there!”

            “Yeah, speaking of demons.” Dean kicked one foot up onto the spare chair. “What’s the scoop on Lilith?”

            The lantern-light cast eerie, long-fingered shadows across John’s craggy face. “There’s no easy answer to that question, Dean.”

            “Then give me the shortest one.”

            John folded the paper closed, clearly deep in thought. “You’re not ready for it. All you need to know is that she’s smart, she’s bitter, and she’s dangerous. She runs monsters into the ground, plays the toughest fighters out there.” John’s grayish eyes reflected the light. “She practically owns Nashville.”

            “Nashville.” Dean mulled that over. “Isn’t that where the Gaiaphage is?”

            “Largest holographic arena in the world.” John confirmed.

            “Sounds like a real catch.” Dean trickled another handful of Cheerios into his mouth. “So, she used to have a leash on Sam?”

            “It looks like it.” John scratched his jaw. “That worries me. It’s not often a demon will throw a prize-fighter if it hasn’t been beaten to a pulp.”

            “Yeah, Sam’s the picture of health.” Dean snorted.

            “He looks a damnsight better than most of the rejects from the League. _If_ they survive, it’s not for long: their brains are damaged from too many knocks to the head, they’ve broken so many bones, they’re deformed. They’ll show up in the Pits for laughingstock before someone puts them out of their misery.”

            With the cereal gone, Dean shoved the bowl aside and rested his arm on the table. “You think that’s what happened to Sam?”

            “We won’t know his story until he starts talking.” John opened the newspaper again, angling his gaze down as he continued: “When he wakes up, Dean, I don’t want any more of this acquiescing. You hear me? I know you weren’t raised in this business, but you’ll follow my lead.”

            More orders, more assumptions. “Right. This coming from the guy who can’t win a fight.” Dean grabbed the bowl and brought it over to the sink, dumping it in with a haphazard stack of plates. “You were a better Hunter than you are a Handler.”

            John didn’t have an answer for that, and Dean felt the tiniest prickle of guilt.

            The shadows welcomed him back outside the lantern’s glow, and Dean trudged up the stairs. He was finally tired, or at least sick of trying to stay awake. He glanced into the guest bedroom on his way past—stopped in his tracks.

            Sam was completely twisted up in the blankets, writhing painfully. Tendons bulged from his neck, his head craning back. If Dean didn’t know better, he would’ve called it a seizure.

            “Whoa, whoa, hey! Hey!” In two strides Dean reached the bed, pinning Sam down by his shoulders and leaning over him. “Hey! Sam!” He could feel sweat and heat radiating from Sam’s skin as he thrashed, still in the throes of whatever heavy nightmare was suffocating him. “Man, you gotta snap out of it— _Sam_!”

            Sam arched toward Dean and went slack in his grip. For a gut-punching second Dean was convinced Sam had just died right out from under his hands; and then he felt that rapid, fluttering pulse in the veins right under his fingertips.

            Dean slumped into the chair beside the bed. “Scared the hell outta me.”

            Sam tossed and turned under the blanket, rolling onto his stomach with his arms stretching beneath the pillow. When he breathed out, it sounded looser and easier than the rapid, start-and-stop panting that had filled every corner of the room since they’d hauled him soaking out of the bathtub and laid him on the bed.

            “So much for shut-eye.” Dean grumbled, getting back to his feet, twitchy with nerves. He could still taste the instant of panic on the back of his tongue. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He allowed himself a little smirk for that one.

            The guitar he hadn’t picked up or even put a thought toward in nearly a week felt like the welcoming arms of an old friend the moment he pulled her from the case. Sinking back into the chair in the corner of the guest room, Dean tuned the strings with a practiced ear, keeping the strumming as muted as he could.

            “So, uh,” He avoided looking at the bed. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one.”

            His fingers stumbled over the first two songs, old ones he’d learned out of songbooks propped against the window of the Impala as they’d driven from Kansas to South Dakota, where Bobby lived on a sprawling acreage of a junkyard. Every time he missed a beat, Dean cursed and started over.

            He played songs he knew by heart, but the names escaped him. They were glossed over, replaced with new titles: _Lilith; Monster; Faceless._ Dean let the sound of the chords fill in the blanks after every word that he didn’t have a feeling to pin to, or any idea of what it made him feel anyway. He played away New York; his first time in the Pits; Gordon Walker’s threatening gesture on departure. Sam’s fever, the tension between Dean and his parents, between him and John, the tension that had settled like a stomachache, but deeper than that, right inside his soul.

            The sky outside the window was graying, but not glowing, by the time Dean awakened to the realization that his arm was sore and there were raw throbbing indents over the calluses on his fingers. He picked up his hand and shook the feeling back into it, glancing at the bed for the first time in over an hour.

            With his cheek smothered in the pillow, Sam was watching him.

            An awkward silence expanded between them, Dean tapping his fingers on the body of the guitar with a reverberating click.

            “Heya.”

            Sam blinked.

            Dean sniffed, leaned the guitar against the wall and scooted his chair closer to the bed. “You with me?”

            Sam nodded, a jilting motion with his face still mashed against the pillow. His eyes remained glassy from the fever, but when Dean put out a hand he noted with some relief that at least Sam’s skin wasn’t tingling hotly anymore.

            That seemed to have it detriments, too. With more focus than Dean had seen from him yet, Sam picked up his head, scanning the room. Undisguised fear filtered into his gaze and he struggled to sit up, his sinewy arms barely able to support his weight.

            “Whoa, whoa, take it easy there, Balboa.” Dean cautioned, leaning forward to grip Sam’s arm. The response was an immediate, if weakened, escape. Sam perched on the opposite edge of the bed, watching Dean with wary eyes.

            “Okay.” Dean blew out a breath. “You’re in a house. _My_ house.” He held up both hands in a calming gesture. “You were out in the shed, you got sick. My mom’s been pumping you full of antibiotics for the last couple days.”

            Sam cocked his head, and Dean mirrored the motion after a second, trying to sort out Sam’s apparent interest.

            “Mom. My mom. What, monsters have _moms_ , right?” The statement was punctuated with a chuckle, because now that he thought about it Dean couldn’t remember if they did. “Her name’s Mary. She was a, uh, therapist, for about five years. In New York. Ever hit the rings in New York?”

            After a few uncomfortable seconds, Sam nodded.

            “Pretty sweet city, huh?” Dean draped one arm over the back of the chair. “Mom’s been keeping an eye on you since we brought you in. My dad, John, he’s, uh…” The sentence died on its own, because Dean didn’t have words, really, no one did, to describe John Winchester. “He’s got his problems.”

            Sam sent a pointed look to the bandage on his arm.

            “You remember that, huh?” Sam nodded, and Dean mussed a hand through his spiky hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. We needed to know what we were dealing with.”

            Sam watched Dean carefully for a minute, then scruffed a hand through his own hair, flattening it against the nape of his neck.

            The silence wriggled its way back in, the two men looking away from each other.

            Finally, Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh. You want anything? Water?” Sam’s head bobbed with a conciliatory nod at that, and Dean got to his feet, stretching. “I’m Dean, by the way. Winchester.”

            He found John where he’d left him hours before, sitting at the table with his newspaper. Dean filled up a glass of water in the sink, wondering how long it would be before the water was shut off just like the power.

            He kicked the leg of John’s chair in passing. “Sam’s awake.”

            Awake, and mobile, it seemed, because when Dean returned he found Sam had  abandoned the bed for the floor and was tucked into the alcove between the nightstand and wall, with the kind of apprehensive posture that told Dean this kid could explode from nothing to dangerous in five seconds flat. Even if the tests had all turned up negative, there was something more than human living under Sam’s skin, in the backs of his eyes.

            Dean crouched with his back to the door, set the glass of water on the floor and slid it toward Sam. “All right, house rules: we tried it your way, but this solitary confinement thing isn’t gonna work. Turns out, you almost got yourself killed; and we can’t let that happen, ’cause you’re…” He shifted his jaw, trying to phrase it appropriately. “Sort of the last, desperate dying hope of this screwed up family.”

            Sam peered at him over the rim of the glass, taking measured, slow swallows. Dean had to assume that was an expression of understanding.

            “You follow my lead, you do what I tell you, and maybe we’ll figure this out. You got it?” That direct question earned him a nod, which prickled at Dean’s frustration. “Dude, what’s with the mime act? You don’t have _anything_ to say? At all?”

            Sam reverted to studying the water glass. Dean rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling. “Why the hell am I even trying?” He walked over to the corner, grabbed the guitar and headed for the door, almost colliding with Mary on the other side.

            “Dean,” She said his name around a yawn. “How is he?”

            “Awake, moving around.” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “Not talking.”

            “Mmm, give him time.” Mary rested a hand on Dean’s cheek for a second. “If he’s awake, he may have turned a corner. Your father will be happy to hear that.”

            Dean couldn’t imagine John being happy about anything; not anymore. “Yeah, or he’ll just toss Sam into a fight and get him killed.”

            Mary’s eyes shaded with sadness. “He knows better.”

            She stepped past Dean, into the room, and Dean met Sam’s eyes for a second. Sam didn’t speak, of course not, but Dean felt a sizzling clarity of thought, like reading it straight from Sam’s expression.

            The fear was back.

            Bumping the guitar against the wall, Dean waited for Mary to check Sam before he let himself go back to bed.

 

-X-

 

            Dean Winchester was running.

            A clammy gray fog had settled over Lawrence, Kansas, and it wasn’t looking to let up anytime soon. It made the empty two-lane road feel claustrophobic and muffled, nothing but his own footfalls chasing him as Dean jogged. Sweat dampened his hoodie even with the sleeves rolled to the elbow and the hood down; two miles out and two miles back felt like longer than it should have, especially with the knife scratching his tailbone where John had insisted he conceal it, tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

            It was good to get out of the house; he’d been indoors with Mary’s mercurial mood-swings and John’s near-constant irritability for almost three weeks now, and it was beginning to suffocate him.

            At least he could breathe easier around Sam, with the threat of the infection fading. The recovery after the fever had been marked, and a relief. Sam ate the food they brought him now, though sparingly; Dean’s equivalent of one meal would’ve fed Sam for a full day. He preferred to eat in the guest room and didn’t seem ready to tackle the stairs yet, for one reason or another.

The fear didn’t leave him, hanging like a pall close to his skin long after the flush of his overtaxed, overheated body had faded. He’d let Mary bandage the gash in his chest, sitting stiff and still on the hardwood floor while Dean strummed the guitar in the corner. He always seemed a little less reluctant to let someone close if there was the distraction of a Beatles song in the near vicinity.

            “He’ll have a scar.” Mary had told Dean one day as they left the guest room. “But I think the worst is behind him.”

            John did his part as far removed from encountering Sam as he possibly could. Old books Dean hadn’t seen since he was training as a Hunter had begun to appear on tables and in corners of the house, throwing dust-motes and shadowy stories into the air. Dean knew John was searching for the only thing that would make sense: finding out exactly what Sam was. But three weeks and more tests later and they weren’t any closer to reaching a conclusion. Sam remained, for the most part, human. Nervous, withdrawn, _human_. Unnervingly human.

            Dean ran to get away from him, too.

            Because for whatever reason—saving Dean’s life, Dean repaying the favor, or simply the fact that Dean’s was the first face Sam had seen after he’d surfaced from the feverdream—Sam had taken a shine to him. Not following him around, but perking up when Dean came into the room. Almost like a dog waiting for a command. Dean had found it funny the first couple times it happened; now it grated on him.

            Somewhere between leaving New York and this windy, chilly road at dawn, Dean had lost his sense of self; swallowed it in between trying to keep the peace between John and Mary, between John and himself, between everyone and everyone else. Dean wanted to grab onto a monster and throw himself headfirst into fighting; and if he hadn’t had Mary’s unholy wrath and John’s constant lecturing to worry about, he might’ve taken his truck and done just that.

            Half a mile from the house, Dean slowed for a rest, propping his hands on his knees and doubling over to catch his breath; the road seemed to shrink away from him, growing longer by the second. He shook off the woozy sensation of being stuck in place, wiping his hand against his forehead.

            A prickling sense of awareness skittered up Dean’s spine. He frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the empty road; there were no houses, no other establishments for at least two miles in any direction. Fights had consolidated living space, packing more people into metropolitan areas and leaving the residences in the country so outflung from one another it was like living on an island; a close-fitting island in a sea of time. There was a forest flanking the road behind him, and from that general direction Dean felt the wariness of contact, a _watched_ feeling.

            He started running again.

            He felt stupid to be relieved when the two-story house loomed out of the mist ahead of him. With a final burst of speed, Dean vaulted the gated white fence onto the front lawn, almost colliding with the bumper of his sun-faded, denim-blue pickup truck. It was one of the few things he owned that hadn’t been purchased for him or given as a gift; Dean had bought it off a hard-luck Handler in New York. The man’s initials, _B.H.,_ were carved into the front fender. Dean ran his fingertips over the hollow grooves on his way toward the front porch.

            He stepped inside and wiped his feet on the mat Mary had dug from the hall closet. “Yo! I’m back!”

            No answer; Dean glanced up the stairs on his way to the kitchen and almost swallowed his own tongue. Wraithlike and silent, Sam sat on the top step, his legs sprawled out to reach the two steps below, his eyes on Dean.

            “Holy crap!” Dean grabbed the banister. “What are you _doing_?”

            Sam shrugged; of course there was no other answer. He’d been with them for a month now and Sam never said anything.

            But that was a definitely a _Not much_ sort of shrug.

            “Yeah, well, you wanna try not perching on the stairs like a freaking vulture?”

            Sam nodded and got to his feet, _Sorry_ , then nodded again, more directly in Dean’s direction: _Welcome back_. He turned toward the guest room and it struck Dean that Sam had been waiting for him to come back; maybe the whole time he’d been gone.

            “Freak,” Dean muttered under his breath, heading for the kitchen.

            The pressure in the air was snapping like a livewire the moment Dean stepped inside: Mary beside the fridge, John near the pantry, glaring at one another like they’d been in the middle of a heated argument before he’d interrupted them. Dean grabbed a water bottle from the cooler and popped the top off, slurping a few noisy mouthfuls and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

            “I miss something?”

            Turning her attention to the sink, Mary picked up a dirty bowl and started to rinse it out. “Just your father’s brilliant plans.”

            “Oh, great.” Dean groaned. “What now?”

            “I’m getting damn tired of the two of you ganging up on me.” John grunted.

            “No, I’m serious, I wanna hear this.” Dean scratched the wind-tenderized, itchy skin of his arm and sniffed. “Lay it on me.”

            Before John could open his mouth, Mary banged the bowl into the drainer and spoke for him: “John has come to the conclusion that things are so bad, we have no choice but to sell the Impala and buy into a fight.”

            “What?” Dean’s gaze swiveled between the two of them. “Are you—dad, you can’t _sell_ her! You can’t sell the car!”

            “What other options do we have, Dean?” John asked wearily. “If I bet on a fighter that’s not my own, maybe I stand a chance. Maybe. But I need the money to do it.”

            “Because that’s always been a success in the past, hasn’t it, John?” Mary snapped. “You really know how to pick your fights, don’t you?”

            “You know what? Don’t talk to me like that, Mary!”

            “How else do you want me to talk to you? Nothing I have said is getting through to you!” Slapping the sponge on the counter, Mary whirled to face him. “Your impulsive gambling on these fights is doing nothing but sinking you deeper and deeper into debt. Now, we have five hundred dollars to our names, a water bill that’s long past overdue, and four mouths to feed on canned goods and Cheerios.”

            “Let Sam feed himself.” John suggested grimly. “And while we’re at it, we could always _sell the Impala_.”

            “And do _what_ when Gordon comes looking to settle that score, huh?” Dean cut in.

            “Gordon? Gordon _who_?” Mary’s tone suggested that no answer to that question could possibly be the right one.

            John closed his eyes for a brief moment. “I was going to tell you—”

            “To tell me _what_? What did you do? _John_?”

            “I’ll tell you what he did, he got in so deep with this bastard that it’s gonna take a friggin’ miracle to fix it, and I’m not even sure _that_ would work.” Dean dropped the water bottle on top of the cooler. “He owes this Handler the skin off his back, ’cause he’s the guy who’s always runnin’ from a fight.”

            John’s hand closed in a fist in the folds of Dean’s hoodie, slamming him up against the wall hard enough to rattle his head, rattle the spice shelf above him. Mary’s protest of, “ _John_!” was buried under John’s furious voice in Dean’s face, “I’ve had it with your attitude, Dean!”

            “I’ve had it with _you_!” Dean snarled, grabbing John’s arm to break his hold.

            The next thing Dean knew, John was pulled forcefully off of him. Dean’s knees buckled for an instant as the grip on his front slackened before he lunged after John, anger spitting like wildfire in his veins.

            A hand connected with Dean’s chest, forcing him back. He retreated, the red haze clearing from his vision to register what was happening.

            John, with his back to the table; Mary, one restraining hand on his shoulder. And Sam in between Dean and John, one arm outstretched toward each of them, a physical force to stall the fight.

            He’d made it down the stairs, on his own, for this.

            Sam shook the shaggy hair from his eyes, sparing an ignited glance toward Dean, _Stop_ , and toward John, the same.

            John bucked off Mary’s hold and stormed out of the kitchen. The front door slammed, and a minute later the Impala’s guttural engine chugged to life, roaring out of the yard. Dean let his tense muscles go slack, but the anger was still smoldering in his chest. He grabbed the water bottle and headed for the door, ignoring Sam, ignoring Mary.

            “Dean,” Mary called after him, her softened voice a plea.

            For the first time in as long as he could remember, Dean let the screen door slam shut on her and everything she needed from him.

            If the world had felt claustrophobic before, now it was downright oppressive, closing in on him. Rage elongated Dean’s bow-legged stride, made him feel like he was on the edge of bursting into a run; he wasn’t sure how far he’d go, or when he’d come back. The only thing that seemed to shine through the miasma of his exhaustive anger was that he couldn’t keep his head above water while he was around John.

            Wrapped up inside the tumult of his parents, Dean hopped the fence behind the house and shoved open the flimsy double-doors of the massive, rustic barn that backed the property. It was arid and dusty, straw motes drifting in the hazy gray-white light. It didn’t look like it had been touched since Dean and Mary had left; the moth eaten punching bag still hung from the joists, right in the dead center of the depressed floor.

Dean shucked his hoodie off to bare skin as he all but leaped down the two steps to the sunken base of the barn and came at the punching bag with fists swinging.

The first punch wasn’t nearly satisfying enough; there was something that lacked in beating on a target that couldn’t bleed. But that didn’t stop him, not when it was a choice between this and the walls of a house he couldn’t afford to destroy. Dean snapped knee-jabs and kicks in between blows with his fists, punctuating every swing with a grunt of exertion. His muscles lunged into the motion, recalling his training days with ease: this same punching bag absorbing hits from fists that had been smaller back then, weaker. This was where John had taught him mixed martial arts, father and son wrestling together in the straw until Mary had called them in for dinner.

But with every jab of his fists that struck home, the punching bag felt less like a worthy target for his lashes. It reminded Dean of sparring with Jo Harvelle; homemade punching bags progressing to combat training with her father, in seedy back alleys and abandoned lofts of New York City.

Dean felt like he’d give anything to be back there again; life hadn’t made much more sense when they were living with the Harvelles, but at least there hadn’t been the constant friction that was rubbing his nerves raw here in Kansas.

If she could’ve seen him now, Dean had a feeling Jo would’ve given him her classic raised eyebrow and crossed arms, lips pressing thin. “Wow, Winchester. Ever heard of anger management?”

Bracing one hand on the swinging bag, Dean ducked his head and rasped for breath. He finally became aware of his surroundings again: the tattoo of rain on the roof, the straw-dust kicked up by his movements, the stuffing that leaked from the seams of the worn-out bag.

His anger hadn’t cooled, not enough to calm him. The only option seemed to be running, as far and as hard as he could, someplace where the fight wouldn’t cling to his skin. Dean rolled the twinges of overworked muscles from his shoulders and turned to retrieve his hoodie, lying in a crumpled heap by the steps.

 A grip on his shoulder from behind stalled him, and in the second it took for Dean to plant his feet against some sort of attack, Sam stepped around in front of him.

            A knot of frustration corded Dean’s gut. “Move, Sam!”

            Sam didn’t, and he hadn’t looked this lankily tall when he’d been lying on the guest bed or hunched in the corner getting his chest bandaged. Dean tried to step around him and Sam bobbed with his movements, mirroring him to a science.

            “Sam! Get outta my way!”

            The look Sam gave him was silent and screaming in the absence of voice: _No._

Dean puffed out a breath that did nothing to calm him, sliding Sam a sideways twitch of an aggravated almost-smile. “I don’t have time for this.” He tried to sidestep around him, again, and this time when Sam moved with him, he moved with his hand outstretched, his fingertips resting just above Dean’s collarbone to stop him. Dean read the downward tilt of Sam’s mouth, the way his eyebrows pulled together and creased his forehead under his bangs: _C’mon, man_.

            It would have been easy to justify what he did: Sam was overstepping his boundaries; he was in Dean’s way; but in the end, Dean knew it was a more basic equation than that. Because he was furious, and Sam was _there_.

            So Dean swung a punch for Sam’s face.

            There was a jarring thump, bone grating against bone, as Sam caught Dean’s fist in one hand.

            They stared at one another, green eyes into hazel, shock beating through Dean’s veins in time with the rainfall that was kicking up force on the roof of the barn; not because Sam had stopped the blow, but because it hadn’t been a mad scramble, a slow and concentrated thought process. More of an instinct, action and reaction.

            Or a coincidence.

            Dean jolted a knee toward Sam’s soft, unprotected middle, and Sam’s left hand met him like poetry in motion, shoving Dean’s leg down. Dean caught his foot on Sam’s ankle and shoved, springing them apart.

            The punching bag creaked on its chain; wind rattled the high windows in the rafters. Dean brushed a palm over his knuckles, straightening. “You can fight?”

            Sam lifted his arms away from his body. _That’s what monsters do._

Dean pounded his fist into his open palm and came at Sam with another ringing blow meant to scramble him; Sam ducked sideways, spinning around almost across Dean’s back, the ridges of his spine knocking against Dean’s, shoulders pressing to shoulders. Dean moved with him, meeting Sam when he came around from the dodge; Sam caught the next punch like he had the first, twisting Dean’s arm over his head and spinning him around, shoving him onto his knees.

            “Ow, ow! Okay! All right, I surrender!” The words burst out with incredulous laughter. “Let up, would ya?”

            Sam released him and retreated; Dean shoved himself to his feet, panting for what little breath he’d lost, watching Sam’s expression shift from focused to contrite.

            “You’ve been holding out on us,” Dean accused. “This whole time? Dad was starting to think you were some kinda genetic fluke. Y’know, the little monster that couldn’t. And now, what, you know kung-fu?”

            Sam offered him a pained expression. _I can explain this_.

            Dean snatched up his hoodie and tugged it on over his damp hair and faintly-steaming skin. “I’d love to hear the story behind this one.”

            Sam looked away. _It’s complicated_.

            “You think I’m pissed?” Dean asked, his voice swelling to fill in all the empty spaces in the barn. “Dude! Sam, I’m not pissed. Well, I mean…I still owe my dad a serious beat-down. But this… _this_ is how we’re gonna get by! If you can fight, then, hell, you can _fight_.”

            He moved to clap his hands on Sam’s shoulders and Sam stepped back, that familiar mistrust returning to his eyes. He looked less like the man who’d stepped into the fight between John and Dean, and more like the kid who’d been burning with fever in their bathtub three weeks ago.

            Dean rubbed a slow hand across his unshaven jaw. “All right, we’re gonna have to take this from the top.” He held up his finger. “Training. We don’t tell my mom, we _definitely_ don’t tell my dad. You show me what you’re made of and we’ll take it from there. Sound good?”

            Sam paced toward the punching bag that still swung lazily, stopping it with his hand. He kept his back on Dean, his head hanging. Everything about him seemed to sag, slipping forward sadly.

            “Sam,” Dean insisted. “Look, you’re a—” He stopped short of the word ‘ _Faceless_ ’. “You’re _different_. And if you’re not gonna tell us what you are, then we gotta start from scratch.”

            Sam shook his head.

            Circling the punching bag, Dean gave it a shove, bumping it against Sam’s chest. “Hey! Eyes on me.” He waited until he was sure he had Sam’s attention before he continued, “Sam, man, I’m asking you…please.” He kept his voice low. “We’re up the creek. Dad’s got a gun to his head and mom’s drowning. I can’t carry this load by myself.” He gave the punching bag another shove and this time Sam caught it; his head had lifted, his eyes regarding Dean with unreadable emotion. “Work with me, here. Help me fix this, and I swear, I’ll watch your back.”

            Sam shoved the punching bag back and Dean snagged the fabric with the palm of his hand. “I’m not gonna manhandle you into this. That’s just gonna start a lotta bad feelings that I can’t take at this point. But if you think you can handle it, then I’m gonna be right there with you. I’m not gonna let you get hurt.” He pushed the bag back toward Sam. “You trust me?”

            Sam’s long fingers played havoc against the punching bag for a minute, his eyes measuring Dean, seeming to weigh him against the magnitude of whatever hell had been Sam’s life before he’d come into theirs.

            And finally, Sam nodded

            Dean grinned. “Now we’re talkin’.” He curled his fingers over twice, beckoning. “C’mon, let’s see if you can get a shot in.” The challenge earned him a disbelieving look. “Let’s go, Sam! You think you can hit me?”

            One of the massive barn doors swung inward. “Dean?”

            He dropped his fighting stance. “Uh. Hey, mom.”

            Mary wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly, her gaze sweeping the rafters on her way to the steps. “Baby, what are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

            “Just screwing around.” Dean shot Sam a warning look from the corners of his eyes, then jogged up the steps to Mary’s level. “You need something?”

            Mary’s gaze softened and she rested her hand on his shoulder, her thumb shifting creases into his hoodie. “I’m just checking up on you.”

            “I’m good.” Dean assured her.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.” He pulled on what he hoped was a winning smile.

            Mary glanced at Sam. “What in the world am I going to do with this son of mine?” She pinched Dean’s ear, eliciting an entirely unmanly yelp from him.

            “Ow! Mom, cut it out!”

            Mary laughed and popped the small of his back with her hand, giving him a shove toward the punching bag. “Go ahead, you can finish whatever you were doing. Obviously you were having fun.” She called over her shoulder on the way to the door, “When you’re hungry, there’s soup.”

            “We’ll be in, just give us a second.” Dean waited for her to leave before he faced Sam again. “Let’s work on getting you back up to speed before we start with the real training, all right? Workouts, running, the whole nine yards. Gotta get you in shape if we’re gonna tackle the real moves.”

            Sam nodded and moved toward the steps, compliant like always. Passing Dean, he reached over and tweaked Dean’s earlobe where Mary had pinched it.

            Dean clapped a hand to the side of his head. “Did you just—?”

            He saw a dimple appear in Sam’s cheek as he walked away, almost like he’d smiled.

            Dean found himself wondering if Sam actually had a sense of humor after all.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six: Whiskey Arms, Leather Grip

 

            It always smelled like blood.

            John stirred with his cheek indented to the couch cushions, eyelashes brushing coarse fabric on the upspring. The coppery smell of blood saturated his dreams and finally faded, letting in the overpowering semisweet tang of coffee. It was a smell John was growing used to; more than that, he was beginning to feel like it meant something more than being _not alone_.

            A murmur of a voice from the kitchen brought John to his feet; he half-stumbled in that direction, with a guilty look at the beer bottle he’d nursed on his way to another round of nightmares the night before. He stopped in the doorway, feeling a bitter rush of unease at the sight of Mary by the sink, with Sam in front of her. He had a good foot of height on her, but with his head bent down he somehow managed to not look quite so intimidating.

            “—too big,” Mary was saying, plucking at the shirt that hung from Sam’s thin frame. “Until you actually start eating like a human instead of an angry animal, it’ll have to work. But as soon as you fill out, you’ll need new clothes.”

            Sam nodded, one of only a few gestures of communication he seemed to have. That was tolerable; what made John’s skin crawl was the way Mary looked at him, without reserve or caution. Like she saw the human face, but not the monster beneath.

            John cleared his throat and they both turned toward him: Sam with the same cautious respect he’d seemed to harbor ever since John had punched him that first day, Mary with calmly neutral eyes.

            “Good morning, John.” Her tone was as controlled as her expression. “Sam was just on his way out.”

            Sam ducked his head to her, then to John, slipping out of the kitchen; the front door creaked open and shut.

            “I don’t like the way you treat him, Mary.” John said the moment Sam was gone.

            “Please, not now.” Mary said wearily; she pushed the plastic single-cup coffee percolator aside and picked up her mug.

            “You seem to be forgetting he’s a _monster_ , Mare. A Faceless.”

            “I don’t live by the rules of your fighting arena, John. I don’t see things in your shades of black and white. I let you do your tests, and they told us _nothing_. As far as I’m concerned, Sam is a normal, human boy who you and Dean had the luck of finding—”

            “In a Snatcher nest. They don’t pick up any random person off the street.” John insisted. “Not to mention he belonged to Lilith. Those demons are nasty sons of bitches. If they had him, they had him for a reason.”

            “Can we not fight about this?” Mary sank into the nearest chair, leaning her elbows on the table. “I don’t want to fight with you right now, John.”

            With one glance at her face, creased with worry and tiredness, John relented. He pulled out the chair across from her, sinking into it with his face in his hands. “Money’s gone,” He murmured. “That last hundred you brought with you from New York won’t last the week. We’re gonna lose the water.”

            “No jobs,” Mary agreed.

            “No fights.”

            They mulled over the collisions of their separate worlds in silence, before John leaned back, rubbing the side of his neck. “If we could get that kid into a fight…”

            “No.”

            “Mary, he’s a waste of space if he can’t earn his keep. The last thing we need is another mouth to feed. I’ve given him this long to recover, and that’s more than any monster deserves. There’s a fight up in Lancaster, a Qualifying round. I’m gonna have to build with him from the bottom, but if he can make it through one fight before he buckles, that’s a start.”

            “What if he dies?” Mary cupped a hand to the side of her neck. “What if he dies, John? What do you think Dean’s reaction will be?”

            “Dean.” John muttered, sitting straight. “What the hell does Dean have to do with any of this?”

            “He sees Sam as his charge. And whether you like it or not, Sam has _bonded_ to him.” Mary stressed the word like there was some underlying importance. When John responded with mute confusion, Mary closed her eyes briefly. “The term usually applies to a child and its primary caregiver, though in this case it’s more a sense of loyalty.”

            “Meaning…?”

            “Meaning Dean might’ve been the first person in Sam’s entire life to show him any kindness.” Mary replied. “And Dean takes that very seriously. He’s always been a protector, he sees it as his roll in life. And Sam is the most unlucky, unworthy individual he’s ever crossed paths with. It’s a challenge and Dean loves it.”

            John rubbed his thumb against the scalloped corner of the table. “He’s not a protector, Mary. He’s _your_ protector.”

            “You never saw him with Joanna Harvelle. The first time a boy teased her in school, Dean got himself suspended for fighting. He beat that boy straight into the hospital. But that’s who he is, John, that’s who your _son_ is. And you’d know it if you two could spend time together without fighting.”

            “And do what? He doesn’t need my training, he doesn’t need my help. He’s a man, he can do things on his own.”

            “Are you sure he wants to?” Mary challenged, but she gave him no room to respond. “We never did right by him, John. We put too much weight on his shoulders when he was just a boy. He deserved better. But I wanted him to be a Hunter, like his father…like mine.”

            “That life’s gone, Mare.” John said quietly. “Reality is, we’ve got two choices for income: hunt for jobs in the big cities, or plant our feet and slog it in the Pits.”

            “That life killed my family, John.” Mary’s eyes were icy with memories. “My father drank his way through fights he couldn’t win. He died lamenting the glory days when Hunters patrolled the world. I watched my marriage backslide into the same sad situation.” She shook her head. “I can’t lose Dean to this, too.”

            “Dean’s strong enough to handle it. More than that, he _wants_ it, Mary. You say he’s a protector? He knows it’s the only way to keep our heads up. He’s invested.”

            Mary opened her mouth to protest, breaking off at the sound of shuffling upstairs. John realized they’d both leaned forward during the conversation, their heads close together over the table. He straightened with a feeling like he was borrowing time, noticing that Mary had an expression of discomfort as she studied her coffee.

            Dean padded down the stairs and swung into the kitchen in bare feet and sweatpants, shirtless. He seemed to do that a lot. John had to wonder if he’d behaved that way when they’d lived with the Harvelles, and there’d been a young lady in the mix.

            “Mornin’.” Dean grabbed an apple from the fruit-basket on the counter. “You guys seen Sam?”

            “Already outside.” Mary replied.

            “Awesome.” Dean thumbed the faded bruise on his shoulder, one cheek stuffed with half-chewed apple. “I was thinkin’ about taking the truck out for a drive, keep it from getting outta shape.”

            “Watch for Gordon out there,” John said before he’d thought through the fact that he and Dean hadn’t said more than a half dozen words to each other since their altercation.

            “Yes, sir.” Dean said absently, taking another bite of apple.

            “And don’t be out too long. We’ve got a visitor today, he should be here anytime after one.”

            That snagged the interest of both Dean and Mary, bringing them to attention.

            “Anyone special?” Dean asked casually, but there was an undercurrent that John couldn’t identify.

            “Just Bobby.” John assured him.

            Dean loosened. “Right. Yeah, we’ll be back by one.”

            John raised his eyebrows at Mary as Dean sprinted back up the stairs. “We?”

            “Who do you think?” Mary stood. “With the water shutting off soon, we need to fill a few pitchers. I could use your help with it, if you have time.”

            John pushed his chair back. “I think I can make room in my schedule.”

 

-X-

 

            Dean’s proposal for a drive instead of training was met with resistance at first. Eyebrows-up, mouth-turned-down, angry-lines-between-the-eyes kind of resistance. A look that Dean read loud and clear as: _Are you serious_?

            “Yeah, Sam, I’m serious.” Dean knelt on the seat of the pickup truck and wedged his guitar case into the space between the seat and the back window. Sam leaned in the open door across from him, his expression of disbelief shifting to one Dean hadn’t seen yet: an almost absolute flatness in his eyes, his mouth pulling taut at the corners, eyebrows slanting down.

            Dean rocked back on his knees. “Whoa. Man, if looks could kill, I’d be dead and gone. You ever use that bitchface on Lilith?”

            It wasn’t the expression so much as the color that drained from Sam’s face, like all the blood had rushed from his head. Dean felt an instant punch of regret beneath his ribs. “Crap. I shouldn’t’ve said anything—”

            Sam waved a hand. _It’s fine_.

            “No, I’m serious. Past is the past, right? I get it, you don’t wanna talk about her.” He swung around into the driver’s seat. “Let’s blow this joint.”

            Sam didn’t climb in, pained eyes watching Dean across the seat.

“Oh—what? You don’t like stairs, you don’t like cars…is there _anything_ you’re not picky about?”

            After a few reluctant seconds, Sam slid into the passenger’s seat, his eyes slanted in a defiant glare. Dean smirked, starting the engine with a guttural roar. Sam flinched violently, grabbing the door handle, and Dean reached across the seat to clap his arm.

            “Sam. Chill.”

            Pressed against the door, almost crowding himself to the window, Sam nodded, staring straight out the windshield.

            Dean blew out a sigh, and drove.

            Sam didn’t relax as Dean guided the truck toward the river nearby. Eventually, keeping an eye on the kid jumping out of his seat every time they hit a pothole became too much of a problem. Dean tuned Sam out, focusing on the hum of the engine and the familiarity of the worn-out steering wheel under his hands.

            They almost missed the turnoff to the riverside, Dean cranking the wheel hard left and spitting gravel from under the tires to make it. Sam fetched up hard against the door, a look of panic saturating his face. Dean braked hard and killed the engine, flashing a smile toward him.

            “Not bad, huh?”

            Sam leaned his temple against the window.

            “Sam?” Dean twisted on the seat to face him. “Ah, c’mon, don’t pout on me. Look, it’s not a big deal, all right? Just a car-ride.”

            Sam closed his eyes and nodded.

            “You ready to get out?” That earned him no response. “Okay, your call. See ya out there.” Dean pulled his guitar case from behind the seat and ducked out.

            The weather had been less than pleasant lately, but the clouds were finally moving on. A chilly wind whipped the surface of the river, churning gunmetal-gray torrents against the rocks. Dean perched on the edge of a picnic table that looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time, resting his ankle on his knee and perching his guitar in his lap.

            The chords of Guns-N’-Roses’ _Patience_ filled in the silences between wind gusts, his fingers catching on the trickier parts. Dean started and started over, stumbling half a dozen times before he hit his rhythm, letting thoughts of fights and training seep away. He hummed, then sang under his breath, his voice not holding the key as well as he could play it, but it made the knot in his chest loosen.

            It was almost fifteen minutes later that he heard the truck door slam shut behind him; moving on to a slower Zeppelin hit, Dean didn’t take his focus off his guitar, not even when he felt Sam settle behind him, his elbow brushing the small of Dean’s back. His eyes sliding to half-mast, Dean played on, segueing into _Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door._

The wind shredded the clouds, pouring light down in streams on the river, and Dean strummed through the last notes of the song, letting his arm rest on the smooth curve of the guitar’s body. He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, saw him sitting with his wrists on his knees and his hands clasped, staring through a gap between two high-branched trees and down the bulk of the river.

            “I grew up out here,” The words slid out before Dean could question why he was saying them. “That house we’re in? S’where I lived until I was twelve.”

            Sam’s head tilted, one curious eye on Dean. Pretending not to notice, Dean centered his focus on the water again.

            “My mom packed up and took us out to New York after she split with my dad.” He rubbed his thumb across the polished edge of the guitar. “He called us up and asked us to meet him the day before we found you.” Sliding off the picnic table, Dean laid the guitar on the seat and walked to the edge of the river, leaning his shoulder against one of the trees. “It’s like he never even fought for us. Y’know? We come back and find out he’s just been fighting this whole time. He never called, never tried to look for us. My own dad,” He laughed derisively under his breath, kicking a misshapen rock into the river with his foot. “Didn’t think I was worth looking for.” He leaned his head back, gazing up through the thin, bony branches of the tree. “I dunno why I’m telling you this.”

            Sam’s boots thudded on the ground; they were an old pair of John’s that Mary had dug out of the recesses of their walk-in closet, but the way they sounded was different than Dean remembered. His dad had walked with authority in his stride, commanding an atmosphere. Marching, not walking. Sam moved with an almost cat-like, long-legged silence, joining Dean beside the river.

            “Quit following me every time I get up.” Dean muttered, but there wasn’t much vigor behind the command. He glanced at Sam sideways, the wind tossing the kid’s hair. “You could use a haircut.”

            Sam puffed out a breath that edged on laughter, gritting his teeth sheepishly. Dean worked up a smile of his own, rubbing a hand across his jaw.

            They stayed that way for a while, watching the wind toss the waves.

 

-X-

 

            Dean was still humming Bob Dylan when they pulled up to the house an hour later; Sam was tensed against the door again, looking about ready to dive out the window. Dean didn’t bother trying to coerce him into leaving the cab, especially when he noticed the old rusted Chevelle parked side-by-side with the Impala.

            “Aw, c’mon, we’re not even late!” Dean hopped out, slamming the door and jogging toward the house.

            He was surprised by how light it felt inside; not tense, not like the last time Bobby had been there. John was sitting on the couch, a newspaper spread out on the coffee table in front of him; Bobby leaned against the arm of the couch, reading over John’s shoulder.

            “Yo, we’re back.” Dean announced, shrugging out of his jacket. “Where’s mom?”

            “Upstairs.” John flicked a glance his way. “That didn’t take long.”

            “Yeah, well, didn’t have much to talk about.” Dean lifted his chin. “Hey, Bobby.”

            “Hey, yourself.” Bobby tipped his hat back and rubbed his forehead. “Where’s our Face-Case?”

            Dean grinned. “Getting his sea-legs back. Turns out cars don’t agree with him.”

            “Something that doesn’t agree with Sam. Imagine that.” John said under his breath, rubbing his knuckles idly against his mouth.

            The screen door swung open behind Dean, and Sam crowded him in the doorway. Dean scowled, stepping out of the way. “Walk on your own feet.” He complained.

            Sam glanced at Bobby, his shoulders hunching slightly. Bobby looked right back, with a peevish narrowness of his eyes.

            “Bobby, Sam.” Dean thumbed over his shoulder. “Sam, Bobby.” He pointed. “Bobby helped me and my mom get back on our feet after we moved outta Kansas.”

            Sam dipped his head with a tight imitation of a smile. To Dean’s relief, Bobby returned it, much more gently. “Hey there, Sam. Mind if I take a look at ya?”

            Sam glanced at Dean, a silent question in his eyes. Dean nodded disarmingly. “Yeah. Bobby’s good.”

            Sam turned his full attention to the older man as Bobby directed him to a slightly frayed armchair by the stairs. “Have a seat.”

            John got to his feet, brushing his hand down the side of his leg. Sam snapped instant, wary focus to John, his eyes watching John’s hand as it curled into a fist.

            Bobby didn’t miss the reaction, glancing at John. “He seems to have you pegged for someone to beware of, in any case.”

            “Just do your thing, Singer.” John snapped.

            “All right, all right, don’t get your pants in a knot.” Bobby leaned over Sam, snagging his chin, turning his head toward the light and watching as his eyes kept their normal hazel, refusing any silver sheen that might suggest a Shapeshifter.

            Dean slouched against the wall for a few minutes, then decided he wasn’t needed in the situation and retreated long enough to grab a sandwich. When he came back with two warm pieces of ham slapped between two dry slices of bread, Sam’s eyes followed him in; it gave Dean a prickly feeling, and also a swell of pride, like for once it really mattered where he was.

            Fifteen minutes later Bobby straightened up and removed his hat, scratching the top of his head. “I can’t figure it. You’re right, John, he’s a true-blue Faceless.”

            Sam’s head swung up at that word, something brief and dark flickering in his eyes. Dean stiffened, watching him, but Bobby and John didn’t seem to notice and after a few seconds Sam dropped his head again.

            “ _Nothing_ , Bobby?” John bit the words out between clenched teeth.

            “Well, if you were really lookin’ for something to nitpick at, I might tell you the veins on his left arm are a little darker than the veins on his right. But he’s been on the move lately, ain’t that right?” He directed the question at Dean, who for half a second wondered if Bobby had somehow figured out about the training.

            “I’m keeping him in the game, yeah.” He hedged.

            “Probably just good circulation.” Bobby shrugged. “Looks to me like you got a human of some sort on your hands. Hell if I know what Lilith saw in ’im, but near as I can figure he ain’t got a drop of monster in his blood.”

            Sam glanced up again, this time engaging a full-force dimpled smile that bled pure relief and made him look like a kid. Bobby seemed startled by the gesture, returning it a little more reluctantly.

            “That can’t be right.” John insisted. “The Snatchers would’ve tested him. _Lilith_ wouldn’t keep a human around, even as a target. We’re not strong enough for the Pits, Bobby, that’s why we use monsters.”

            Bobby relented. “Then you’re right. He’s some kinda Faceless and we got a lotta ground to cover if we wanna find out what he is.”

            “What about in the meantime? You think he can fight?” John asked.

            “Must be good for somethin’, and he’s got the scars and build to say he’s been in a few scraps. Couldn’t tell ya if he’s been anything more than another monster’s punching toy, though.”

            “That’s good enough for me.” John said grimly. “There’s a fight up in Lancaster, a Qualifier. I can take him there tomorrow.”

            Dean almost choked on his sandwich. “Wait, what?”

            “Qualifiers pay by the rounds you win, Dean, not by a whole match.” John said. “It’s not much, but if you don’t want me to sell the car, this is how we make it by. Put him through a couple rounds, see how he turns out.”

            “Just a damn minute,” Bobby growled. “You mean to say your license ran out?”

            John twitched a humorless smile that was answer enough.

            “You gotta lose a _hundred damn matches_ to forfeit a license!” Bobby’s voice punched to the roof and Sam shifted back in the chair away from him. “Dammit, John, just how deep in the hole are you?”

            Dean’s eyes flew to John’s face, watched him study the floor.

            “Deep enough that I gotta start climbing out.” John met Dean’s eyes when he said it, and Dean wanted to cuss. _That’s playing dirty, dad._

            “You Winchesters, I swear on my own life,” Bobby grumbled. “A hundred fights you lost out there.”

            “I came close to winning more than once.” John protested. “We all know that’s some rule the demons put in place just to screw with us.”

            “Dad, he’s not ready.” Dean said, circling the conversation back around to its most crucial point. “You throw Sam into the Pit and he’ll bottom out.”

            “He’s all we’ve got, Dean.” John turned to Bobby, ending the argument. “You staying through this one?”

            Dean focused on Sam; watched his hands curl over the arms of the chair, a wide stare fixed on nothing. Seeing past fights he’d been a part of, or something else that terrified him. When his attention moved to Dean, there was a plea screaming from his eyes: _Don’t make me do this_.

            Dean rubbed the side of his neck and glanced up the stairs, hearing the distant sound of Mary humming a Beatles song as she moved around.

            “What’s the plan?”

            John looked up, momentary shock in his eyes before he quickly masked it. “You want to come along?”

            “I made a promise.” Dean angled the words toward Sam. “So? Show me how this is gonna work.”

            John nodded, grabbed a notebook from under the coffee table and braced it against the wall, jotting in his quick, scrawling handwriting and holding the notebook so Sam could read it. Dean edged in closer for a look.

            “All right. Fights are stacked on three categories: Qualifying rounds, Preliminary rounds, and League rounds. Money flows through the Qualifying rounds like water, but you gotta be careful; you get a maximum of six tries every six months.”

            “Tries for a license.” Bobby added in.

            “Exactly. Win two qualifying rounds back-to-back and you’ve got yourself a license. That license lets you in the prelims…the real meat of Pit fighting.”

            “And you can only lose a hundred of those, right?” Dean braced one hand on the arm of the chair, leaning over the notebook.

            “Before your license is revoked, yeah.” John sighed.

            Dean grabbed the edge of the notebook, giving it a tug to slide it from John’s hand. He dropped it on Sam’s knees and leaned over him. “What d’you think, Sam?”

            Sam fixed an unblinking stare on the diagram, then frowned. He took the pen from John without asking, looping large words over the League section of the drawing.

            Dean read, quietly, “No humans.”

            Sam looked up through a forelock of chestnut bangs, his expression unreadable.

 

-X-

 

            The sunlight was harsh, almost overbearing in Lancaster.

            It was roughly an hour to the arena from Lawrence; long enough for Sam to wind himself too tight to function. By the time they arrived for the Qualifying round, Dean was beginning to wonder if Sam was actually going to throw up.

            Dean slid out first, stretching into the sunlight and squinting, shading his eyes. The Pit was outdoors, inside a round corral, the wooden planks graying from lack of care. People were already crowding the flanks and there was a general atmosphere of excitement, not too different from the Metradrome but on a smaller scale.

            Not inside the car; Sam had one arm propped on the seatback and his forehead on his wrist, taking deep, unsteady breaths.

            “Sam, c’mon.” Dean popped the door open. “You’re not calling in sick.”

            Sam grunted to punctuate a particularly heavy sigh, saying nothing.

            “Dean, we’re already running late,” John reminded him, checking his watch; he didn’t mention that the reason for their leaving half an hour later than they’d wanted to had been Mary, putting in a last-ditch effort to keep Dean at home.

            Dean peered over his shoulder, crinkling one eye shut in the sunlight. “Yeah, I know. You wanna give us a minute?”

            John rolled his eyes with a derisive mutter, heading toward the corral. Dean reached into the car and tapped Sam’s shoulder with the back of his hand.

            “You heard the man, Sam. We’re on a tight schedule. So you wanna get your ass in gear?” He tried to soften the words, but his own excitement made them seem ruthless, blunt. Sam leaned his head all the way back, onto the headrest, staring up at the roof of the Impala. “Sam. Look, all you gotta do is make it through five rounds. You know how to fight, dude, I know you do. Just sack up and help us out, all right?”

            Sam didn’t move, and Dean felt his patience burning a low fuse. He knotted his hand in the front of Sam’s shirt and half-dragged him from the Impala, slamming the door and shoving Sam up against it.

            “Listen to me. My family’s on the line here. This is the only way out that we’ve got. I’ve been going easy on you, ’cause I don’t think you’re screwed up like half the dicks out there. But this can’t keep bein’ a one-way street, understand? If I’m gonna stick my neck out for you, you gotta push back.”

            There was a beat of stillness before Sam nodded, and though it was a slightly forced agreement, it was agreement anyway. Dean loosened his hold on Sam’s collar, stepping back. “All right. So, we’ve got that cleared up. Let’s get in the game.”

            He led the way to the corral, the burning sun spraying over a crowd that roared as the gate was opened and the first two monsters were shoved inside.

            Dean elbowed his way through the masses with Sam just behind him, falling in with John close to the fence. Dean crossed his arms on the top bar, watching with fascination as the creatures fell on each other in the corral, kicking up a scrabbling storm of dust. “What are we dealing with?”

            “Hard to say. They didn’t announce it.” John balanced one foot on the bottom rung of the fence. “From the way that smaller one moves, I’d say it’s a Shapeshifter that’s shed its skin too many times. See how it’s—?”

            “Sorta rippling, yeah.” Dean squinted. “What about that bigger one?”

            John scratched a hand through his salt-and-pepper beard. “After a few years of this, Deano, all the humanoids start to look the same.”

            Sam braced his forearms on top of the fence and leaned his head down, his hair brushing the bar. Dean reached over and clapped him on the back of the neck, giving him a shake. “Relax, Sam.”

            The fight ended when the smaller of the two monsters was on its back with its stomach ripped open; a burly pair of men who passed as bouncers dragged the body from the arena, and seconds later there was a loud pop of gunfire as someone shot the thing in the heart and put it out of its misery.

            Sam’s head jerked up, the sunlight reflecting off his bright eyes. The other fighter, a stumpy-limbed humanoid, was circling the corral, basking in the praise of the people: not as rowdy as the other fights Dean had seen in his time, but still thrumming with anticipation.

            “Anybody else?” The speaker was so buried in the throng, Dean couldn’t put a face to the voice. “Anyone want a chance at their first step toward a license? Anyone at all who’s willing to pit their monster against an Akki?”

            Dean groaned. “Oh, crap. Those things are friggin’ strong.”

            “Five rounds against five different fighters puts us on the market,” John said lowly. “Gets us five hundred dollars. You ready for this?”

            Dean slid a glance toward Sam. “We’re not getting any younger.”

            A trace of a smile teased John’s face as he raised his hands. “We’ve got a fighter over here!”

            Dean gave Sam a shove toward the gate, ducking them through the crowd with the cheers erupting around them. Dean kept one arm behind Sam, herding him just in case he decided to bolt.

            They stopped beside the iron gate, the Akki circling on the other side. “Here. Gimmie your jacket,” Dean held out his hand and Sam shrugged the coat off, passing it over. “Eyes on me, Sam. Listen.” Dean stepped in front of Sam, drawing his attention off the other fighter. “An Akki’s not like a Shapeshifter. Doesn’t have any powers, but it’s damn strong. Stay out of its reach, get in hard hits where you can. All right?” He clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Hey. Look on the bright side. This is gonna make training seem like a breeze.”

            Sam frowned at him for a split second and Dean flashed a megawatt smile, grabbing the gate and heaving it open. “Get in there and show ’em what you’re made of.”

            There was a surge of riotous cheering as Sam slipped into the corral and Dean banged the gate shut behind him, legging himself up onto the bottom rail and cocking his left foot up on the second, arms crossed on the top bar, watching as Sam approached the Akki cautiously.

            “You got this, Sam, c’mon,” Dean murmured under his breath.

            The Akki moved first, an explosion of sinew and anger, strong hands reaching and grabbing. Sam wove effortlessly sideways, lighter than Dean would’ve thought possible on those long legs, scooting behind the Akki and jabbing an elbow into its ribs, eliciting a furious howl from it as it wheeled back toward him.

            Dean’s hands curled into fists in Sam’s jacket.

 

-X-

 

            It had been years since John had found himself this invested in a fight.

            There was something repetitious and dull about pitting monsters against each other day after day. He’d lost count of how many vampires he’d seen gorging themselves on spilled blood that they’d been starved of before the fight; werewolves, in their rare prime, ripping out the hearts of their opponents; Shapeshifters rippling in and out of form, adapting to their enemy.

            This was different; Sam was constant, he was unchanging. A lithe white-and-blue blur, jeans and a t-shirt in a fog of autumn sand, and he didn’t move like someone who’d been taking hits all his life. More like he was used to giving half as good as he got.

            Against his better judgment, John was intrigued.

            The Akki wasn’t a good match-up against Sam; the monster was enormous and lumbering and it had managed to beat the Shapeshifter due to its distraction; but Sam was fast and focused, a plucking frown between his eyes throughout the fight. He escaped with barely a scratch before a right-left cross and a snapping kick put the Akki to its knees. Sam grabbed its neck and flipped it sideways, dashing its skull on a rock jutting out of the ground. The action was met with approval from the crowd and Sam retreated, struggling for breath and watching as the muscled guards pulled the Akki from the ring.

            It seemed John wasn’t the only one who was engaged by Sam’s sparing, calculative fighting style. The Akki had barely been dragged from the corral before a Redcap was manhandled inside, four and a half feet tall and obviously, violently bitter as it faced Sam down. The gate had barely clanged shut when the Redcap sprang, taloned fingernails catching Sam across the cheek, staggering him back. Sam recovered in seconds, dropping low with a spinning kick that knocked the Redcap’s feet out from under it. When its hand made another mad swipe for his face, Sam leaned away, smacking the offending limb out of his way and pinning it to the dust.

            The fight dissolved into a wrestling match right there in the arena, the crowd melting into laughter. John scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces until he saw one in particular; Dean was watching the fight, half a smile on his face but his eyes narrowed with concentration, watching the hazy blur of drifting dust until Sam was visible again, pinning the Redcap with its head in his hands. With one quick snap, he shattered its neck.

            The laughter reverted to ecstatic cries, a tide carrying higher as Sam faced a vampire, practically a sight for sore eyes when stacked against the variety of this Qualifier round. The thing was obviously thirsty and untrained, and within five minutes Sam had held it pinned and won his way into the next round: a fight against a Changeling child, its jaw practically sleek with drool as it was pushed in. John felt an ugly, painful twist in his heart, wondering how long the monster had been starved, and where its human source was being held.

            Sam seemed inclined to feel the same; John noticed him pulling his punches from the start, defending himself rather than attacking. But that only served to drive the Changeling to greater heights of hunger. It stalked Sam with its mouth gaping, needle-sharp vortex of teeth poised, always ready to strike.

            It lunged, and as Sam fell back his distance to the fence misjudged. He didn’t have room to dodge, and the Changeling’s savage bite connected with Sam’s upraised arm. Any audible reaction from Sam was lost in a swell of noise from the crowd, but John had a clear and open view as Sam gripped the child by the hair and flung it across the arena. It rolled to a stop beside the gate and didn’t rise again.

            The crowd began a screaming countdown from ten seconds, the Changeling struggling once to rise, then falling back. When the count ended with no sign of the fight resuming, the gate swung open and the Changeling was carried out. Sam heaved himself to his feet, cradling his injured arm close to his body. When his eyes crossed with John’s briefly, John nodded.

            Every feeling of jubilation evaporated from the corral when the next monster was thrust in. Seven feet tall with ease, wiry and bent, the face that turned toward Sam wasn’t entirely human. The skin tinged bluish, the bat-like ears and scrunched nosed twitching, John felt an icy plunge take his insides as he found Dean through the crowd.

            _Kee-wakw_.

            More savage than a Wendigo, but somewhere along the lines their lineage had crossed; and Sam was hurt, blood branching across his cheeks and chin and dripping from his forearm.

            A hush fell over the crowd as they watched Sam watching the Kee-wakw.

            A burst of high-pitched sound squealed its way from the monster’s mouth as it flitted across the corral on impossibly light feet, backhanding Sam into the railing. He fell, caught himself with his good hand and spun out of the way of the next hit. John sidestepped with him, a gut reaction that he quickly squelched.

            The Kee-wakw was relentless, graceless but clearly famished and intent. It followed Sam step for step, giving him no quarter. When Sam tried to slip around behind it, it turned on a dime, making a wild grab for him. Sam skipped back out of reach, his chest visibly heaving even from a distance.

            Warnings began to tingle in John’s fingertips. _He’s already won us two hundred dollars. That’s enough for two weeks. We should pull him_. _Pull him, John. He’s no use to anyone if he’s dead_.

            But they were so close; one fight away from the first level toward the Prelims. John curled his hand over the top slat of the fence, watching as Sam narrowly dodged the Kee-wakw, the massive monster prowling after him bent over on all fours, its long human limbs snaking forward with every step.

            And then it was running.

Sam threw himself sideways, his shoulder slamming into the edge of the corral, and the Kee-wakw spun on him. There was a horrible wet splatter and a crunch as the monster’s teeth sank into Sam’s side, and John saw Sam’s eyes slam shut, the tendons in his neck straining as he choked down whatever sound wanted to make itself heard. He jammed his elbow at the Kee-wakw, landing a lucky hit to its eye that pressed it neatly into the socket. The monster had to release him long enough to howl, and Sam brought his knee up, cracking it into the thin membrane of bluish-black skin under the jaw. He slithered out of the monster’s reach, his injured arm pressed to the gush of blood from his side. He tipped dizzily on his feet, backing away.

            John became aware of a voice bellowing through the crowd; realized Dean was shouting at him. “ _Stop the fight! Dad! Call it_!”

            Logic fortified John’s resolve; he gripped the rail in both hands, now. “That’s enough! He’s done! The fight’s over!”

            His voice was drowned by the Kee-wakw’s shriek, reeling around to face Sam with one eye swollen shut. It staggered toward him, clearly unbalanced by its loss of sight; but as slow as it was, Sam was slower.

            The Kee-wakw’s teeth gripped Sam’s thigh and it flung him across the corral, to the exaggerated winces and groans of the people.

            Sam slammed down on his chest, blood spraying from his side. His entire face twisted in a rictus of pain, eyes corkscrewing shut, one arm pinned under his body, still holding in the blood.

            And even the tumult of the onlookers wasn’t enough to hide the single word that tore through the air: “ _Dean_!”

            The sound of Sam’s voice—a hoarse, harsh rasp from who knew how many weeks of disuse—stopped John in mid-word, still trying to call the fight.

            It had the opposite affect on Dean.

            Vaulting the fence, Dean was across the Pit in five steps, crouching beside Sam, and John’s throat swelled shut with undiluted panic. _Dean, you idiot, there’s a monster right behind you_!

            John was moving, leaping the fence himself, his eyes only for Dean; Dean’s eyes only for Sam, his mouth forming Sam’s name over and over again as he tugged Sam’s shoulder, trying to roll him over on his side.

            When the Kee-wakw moved, Dean spun up onto his feet. He spread his arms wide, a defensive gesture, no trace of fear in his eyes. John heard Mary’s words in his mind, _Dean is a protector_ , as his boots hit the arena and he started running.

            And then Sam was there, he was _right there_ , springing to his feet, ignorant of the bloodloss, ignorant of anything, slamming shoulder-first into the monster as it charged for Dean. There was a sickening crack of bone against bone, the Kee-wakw falling under Sam’s attack. Sam planted a foot in its throat, crushing down with his heel before leaping back, out of its reach.

            John stopped, not sure which required his immediate attention: Dean, moving up behind Sam, one hand on his back, or the Kee-wakw, gasping air into its crushed windpipe.

            The ten-second countdown swelled into the gaps around them, John staring at Dean while both boys watched the monster. And the sight of their unified front rattled John right to his core. Because Dean had put himself on the line for Sam; but Sam had faced a charging monster for Dean.

            Had called Dean’s name when he needed help.

            At the count of one, Sam’s eyes slipped shut and he collapsed back against Dean, folded into strong arms that had put a kid in the hospital in middle school, had stopped a fight between John and Gordon in the Metradrome; arms that seemed to belong to someone far gentler the moment Sam was in them. Dean sank to the ground with Sam’s limp, paling body cradled in his grip as the arena went wild around them.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Seven: Throw Up Your Dukes

 

            It was the sound of humming that brought him back.

            The world was bathed in blackness; people sometimes said you could hold onto things, sensations of pain or presence when you were unconscious. Outward stimulation, something that would penetrate the veil and linger after you woke up to the sight of loved ones gathered around your bedside.

            People lied.

            Unconsciousness was a black void not altogether different from sleep, except that when he returned to the world of the awake, the very first thing he noticed was how tired he was.

            Curled on his side, his head cushioned on his arm, Sam blinked open his eyes and stared at the far wall of the room; it was bathed in smoky blue light. The erratic, irregular humming behind him stuttered, then picked up again.

            His ribs throbbed with an intensity that surprised him, and his right arm, tucked along his bare chest, was quilted with a bandage. His skin hadn’t forgotten the needling sensation of dozens of sharp teeth jabbing through the surface; his blood seemed to tingle with the phantom-pain.

            He stretched his legs out experimentally, hating the cushy softness of the bed. He would’ve rolled onto the floor, if the thought of moving didn’t bring on a wave of discomfort and nausea.

            The humming stopped again, and didn’t resume. “You finally back with us?”

            Dean’s voice was low, so Sam could imagine him sitting in that three-legged chair beside the bed, playing with something in his hands, looking down. Dean didn’t think Sam noticed, but his hands were always in motion. Always doing something, tapping a beat on his thighs or running through his hair or tracing stars inside circles on his palm.

            Dean didn’t think Sam noticed, but Sam _always_ noticed the hum of cabin fever that seemed to cling to the creases of Dean’s jacket, to the hoodie underneath, to the skin below that.

            It was a monumental effort, to reach into the wellspring of silence inside of himself and discover the voice he’d held locked away for months, almost a year. “I told you not to let me go out there.”

            “Technically, you didn’t say a damn thing.” Dean rumbled; something depressed the edge of the bed behind Sam, feeling roughly like the shape and pressure of a foot. “Look, I’m alive, you’re alive, we’ve got two hundred and fifty bucks in the bank and one Qualifier under our belts. It’s not a bad turnout.”

            Sliding his good arm out from under his head, Sam levered himself up on one hand. “Yeah, tell that to my ribs.”

            “Whoa, whoa, easy.” Dean was out of the chair in a heartbeat, curling one arm around Sam’s shoulders and bracing his other hand on Sam’s chest, helping him sit up. Dean’s sweaty palm was a relief on Sam’s cold skin. “Are we gonna make this a habit? Me patching you up?”

            “Let’s hope not…agh.” Sam curled his arm around his bandaged middle, feeling his face twist to stave off the pain. “How bad was it?”

            “Eh, mostly bloodloss. No broken bones or anything.” Dean sank back in his chair with a smirk. “So, he talks.”

            “I figured you’d listen.” Sam swung his legs off the bed.

            “Hey, slow down!” Dean latched onto his shoulder from behind. “What’s the rush, there, kiddo?”

            “I hate beds.” Sam slid from under Dean’s grip and onto the floor; there was a split-second of apprehension as he waited for Dean to land a blow on him, before he reminded him self that this was Dean. Dean didn’t hit or kick or slam Sam into walls with his _mind_ because Sam had inched a step out of line.

            “Okay, no beds.” Dean obliged, scooting across the mattress and perching on the edge, his knee brushing Sam’s arm. “You kicked ass out there, Sam. I mean, we’ve had some pretty intense training days, but that was,” He whistled under his breath. “Where’d you pull those moves from?”

            Sam cocked his leg halfway to his chest, winced as the motion chafed at his bandage and the wound underneath. “I dunno, practice, I guess.”

            “You musta been one hell of a fighter.”

            The thought of his _before_ brought Sam a violent mixture of emotions, pain and anger and fear; it made his blood beat like a wardrum in his veins, reminded him of a sour taste and a feeling of always being cold, always being silent, always being alone. Until the moment he’d reached out of his cage to help someone, and they’d reached back.

            That person was perched on the bed behind him, weight leaning back on his hands. “Think you’re up for some food?”

            Sam wasn’t hungry, couldn’t remember having been hungry in a very long time. But he knew the answer Dean wanted, so he said, “Yeah. Sure.”

            Dean bounded to his feet and stretched; Sam reached back, anchoring his hand in the bedspread and levering himself gingerly up after Dean, his ribs protesting in a clamor and the ghost-pain feathering up his arm.

            Dean watched him with concern. “You good?”

            “Yeah,” The word wrangled out of Sam on a groan. “Yeah, I’m good.”

            “All right, c’mon, let’s go!” Dean shadow-boxed his way around Sam, grazing painless blows off his bare shoulders. Sam found himself smiling in spite of the pain; as much as Dean’s cabin fever was infectious, so was his vivaciousness.

            “Can I have a shirt?” Sam asked, the toothy smile slanting to one side. Dean grabbed a v-neck from the back of his chair and tossed it to Sam’s waiting hand. Sam planted his feet and found himself facing a dilemma. “Um. D’you mind—?”

            Dean rolled his eyes and rolled on his knees across the bed, getting to his feet beside Sam. He yanked the t-shirt over Sam’s head, waited for Sam to wriggle his left arm into its sleeve and then, with surprising gentleness and coordination, pushed and tugged Sam’s injured arm into place.

            “Thanks,” Some of the surprise found its way into Sam’s voice.

            Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s no big deal. My mom, she, uh…had to wrangle me into a few tight fits herself.” He shook his head, seemed to be shaking off the memories. “All right, let’s get you fed, huh?”

            Dean back-hopped, still feigning punches, until they got to the stairs. Then he was backing down them, one hand on the railing to keep his balance. “You gotta show me how you did that. I mean, you nailed that Redcap like it was _nothing_.”

            _If I didn’t pull my punches, I could break you._ The words jumped to the tip of Sam’s tongue but he swallowed them. “Yeah, okay.”

            Dean swung around the corner into the kitchen, nearly colliding with Mary.

            “Slow down, Dean.” She laid a hand on his arm to stop him. “What’s the rush?”

            “Sam’s hungry.” Dean thumbed at Sam over his shoulder. “We got anything to eat around here?”

            “Stale bread and stale cereal.” John rose from the dining room table and Sam fought a slithering, curling feeling of dread in his gut. Dean might be different, and Mary was the closest thing to gentle that Sam could remember in his life; but John was a hundred rough edges wrapped around a razor-ridge of bad times, and Sam couldn’t bring himself around to trusting the man.

            “Well, great.” Dean huffed a sigh.

            “Relax. There’s that mini-mart fifteen miles up the road. We can restock on ice, food, anything we need. And mail in the payment to the water company while we’re at it.” John finished a cup of coffee and crooked a finger at Dean. “You’re coming with me.”

            “Think you can hold off on eating for a while, Sam?” Dean asked. “Gotta make sure my dad doesn’t drive off the rez.”

            “You’re a riot, Dean.” John grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair.

            “I’m frickin’ filthy with humor, dad. It’s sick.” Dean wrapped an arm briefly around Mary’s shoulders, flicking a grin toward Sam. “Anything you’ve got a craving for that you want us to pick up?”

            Sam shrugged. “I don’t care.”

            A frown cut briefly into Dean’s face, creasing lines across his forehead, before he relaxed. “All right, see ya.”

            He headed for the door, slapping a beat on his legs with his palms, and Sam’s face twitched into a smile; the expression quickly shifted as John drew even with him, fiddling with the keys in his hand.

            John cleared his throat, his eyes on the front door. “You did good out there in Lancaster, Sam. Keep it up.”

            Caught off guard, all Sam could manage was a quick, “Yes, sir.”

            He didn’t recover his bearings until the front door slammed, and Mary blew out a dramatic sigh. “You’ll learn very quickly that the Winchester men don’t handle feelings very well.” She crossed to the counter. “Coffee, Sam?”

            That question caught him off guard as well. “Uh, I don’t care.”

            “Hm.” Mary filled a cup and set it on the table, pushing it in his direction. Sam started to sit in John’s vacated chair, thought better of it, and pulled out a different one instead. “How are your ribs?”

            “Okay, I guess.” Sam took a sip of the coffee and almost gagged; the bitter taste was conduit to more unpleasant memories, but with Mary watching him over the rim of her own cup Sam felt compelled to drink it.

            “I have to say, it’s good to hear you talking. I was worried,” She pulled a dramatically anxious face. “That you might be a mute.”

            “Would that really be a bad thing?” Sam asked the circular question that had led him to burying himself in silence in the first place.

            “That depends.” Mary slid into the chair across from him. “I think everyone has something that needs to be said.”

            “I’m not so sure about that.” Sam studied the whorls of oil on the surface of the coffee.

            “Why not?”

            Sam opened his mouth, then smiled a toothy, sheepish smile. “It’s a long story.”

            “Well, we’ve got time.” Mary said, tapping her index fingers on the coffee mug. “Or, we could try it a different way.” She slid her tongue along the bottoms of her top teeth, her eyes regarding him with interest but not intrusion. “How about if I guess about that story, and you can just tell me if I’m right?”

            Sam was content to nod and lapse into silence, watching her.

            “You were with Lilith.”

Sam coughed a laugh. “Am I that obvious?” He glanced at the brand on his arm.

“That’s not what I meant. I meant that you were with her for a long time.” Mary started. “Years, I’d say more than five.”

            Sam nodded.

            “There was a pattern of abuse that went above and beyond the risks of fighting. Judging by the scars on your arms and chest, my guess is, blood-bondage; not to mention, who _you_ were as an individual was assimilated into the collective whole. No voice. No face. No personality. You were part of a pack.”

            Sam felt the muscles in his wrists flex, his back straining, shoulderblades pulling together. “Close. They didn’t really let us interact with each other. There was no pack. Just a monster and his cage.”

            Mary sucked her top lip in for a second, then took a drink of her coffee. “You came from a place where the alpha female was, if you’ll pardon my French, a royal bitch. That’s why you already trust Dean, and you can tolerate John, but there’s something about me that puts you on edge.”

            Sam splayed his palms on the tabletop and leaned back, his skin prickling. “Are you some kind of mind-reader?”

            That brought on a laugh that Sam found, in spite of everything, to be pleasant. “No. No, Sam, I’m as normal as they come. I don’t even follow Pit-fights.” She smiled at him. “I was a therapist; my field of study centered around abuse. I know the signs.”

            That rang a familiar chord inside of him; he thought that maybe Dean had told him this before. “Thanks, but I don’t think you can help me.”

            “I beg to differ. I bandaged you up, didn’t I?” Mary nodded to the bulky wrappings around Sam’s middle. “My father was a Hunter. He taught me some battlefield triage back when I was a little older than you are now.”

            The title _Hunter_ hissed through Sam’s mind, reminding him of words whispered between cage bars, the angry bark of one of his Handlers swearing about the _old days_.

            “I guess you saved my life.” The words emerged a little stiffly, but Mary didn’t seem to notice, with a sad smile tipping her lips.

            “I wasn’t the one holding your blood inside your body on the way home.”

 

-X-

 

            They jogged under a sunny sky.

            The world was in the full and merciless red-gold grip of autumn; they were closing in on November and Sam could already feel his ribs beginning to heal. The raw-red puckered line of stitches would probably scar, like the gash on his chest, but Sam wasn’t complaining. He had enough white-line lashes on his body to make him indifferent to accumulating more.

            Dean held out an arm as they reached the bend in the road that marked the two miles out from the house. Sam slowed to a walk, then stopped, doubling over with his hands on his knees. Dean paused for less time than that, then paced circles around Sam, stretching.

            Sam watched him with curiosity; Dean’s mood had been on the upswing in recent days, from the almost brooding vigilance that Sam had woken to, to this energetic force of nature moving almost nonstop.

            Something about it bothered Sam, set him on edge, but he couldn’t put a name to the sensation, so he did his best to ignore it.

            “Hey, Sam, lemee ask you something.” Dean squinted against the sunlight, perching his hands on his hips and stopping, facing Sam,

            “Yeah, anything.” Sam straightened to attention.

            Dean shifted his weight. “Why’d you go head-on with that Kee-wakw when it was comin’ after me?”

            Sam smiled at him; smiling came naturally, almost easily, most days, when he was around Dean. “Why’d you jump into the arena?”

            Dean’s mouth popped open, but whatever retort he’d prepared didn’t find its way out; pursing his lips and closing one eye against the sunlight, Dean shifted to an expression of pure annoyance. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

            Sam felt his smile slip. “You were in there because of me. I had to protect you.”

            Dean gave him a look like he’d sprouted a second head, and Sam backtracked the conversation in his mind; a year without verbal communication had left him a little rusty on what was permissible in normal conversation.

            “Sorry,” He said, quickly.

            Dean shook his head and started jogging again, calling over his shoulder: “There’s another Qualifier up near Fortescue. That’s in Missouri. It’s about a two hour drive.” He tossed a glance back as Sam let himself loosen up, lengthening his long-legged stride to pull even. “Think you can make it in the car that long?”

            That was a valid question that left Sam tasting something unpleasant in his throat; cars were mobile prisons, cages on wheels. Close and cold and vibrating. He hated everything about them. But he couldn’t forget the look of delight on Dean’s face when they’d come back earlier that week with a decent stock of food, using money Sam had earned through a fight; a fight only he could’ve won.

            “Okay.”

            “Okay?” Dean echoed skeptically. “Seriously?”

            Sam shrugged, the effect somewhat ruined by the motion of jogging. “You need me to do it, right?”       

            “Dude, you got your ass torn six ways from Sunday last week, and all you can say is, ‘ _okay_ ’?”

            Confusion settled in. “D’you…want me to say no?”

            “No!”

            The hedging left him bereft. Sam darted out a hand, catching Dean’s arm and pulling him to a stop. “Dean. I can’t give you what you want if I don’t know…what it _is_ that you want.”

            “Who cares what I want, Sam? I’m the one asking the questions, here!”

            Dean’s raised voice made the hairs stand up on the back of Sam’s neck. He retreated a step. “I’m your property, Dean. This isn’t _about_ me.” By all rights, Sam knew, he shouldn’t have been arguing. Silence would’ve been more becoming.

            Dean’s tongue slid out, tracing back and forth across his lower lip. “Property.”

            Sam frowned, tilting his head. “You’re my Handler.”

            Dean darted him a sideways look laden with irony. “Let’s get home, we’ve got some training to do.”

            Silence hung between them back down the serpentine road, the wordless nothing filled in with the synchronistic slap of their footfalls, the measured beats of their breaths. Sam was willing to bet their hearts were beating almost in rhythm; there was something calming in that, in being alone with a person who wasn’t threatening him or reaching out hurtful hands. Even at his angriest, Dean internalized it, seemed to keep it from lashing out toward most people. John being the exception.

            By the time they rounded the last curve and the road leveled out toward the house, Sam’s skin itched with sweat and his lungs and ribs were rioting against him. He all but staggered into the fence, catching himself on the edge and puffing out air.

            Dean swung the gate open without a word, but he waited for Sam before going inside himself. That was something.

“Let’s get to work.” Dean said, and it was somehow a truce.

Sam kicked off his boots, letting his cramped toes breathe; he hadn’t bothered to tell Mary, because he didn’t want her wasting valuable resources on him, but his feet were in agony being crammed into too-small boots every day. It was a relief to train exactly how he’d always trained: unshod.

Sam’s bare feet dug into soft soil and wet grass as he followed Dean away from the fence. Dean’s truck and the Impala were parked flanking the shed, giving the boys the wide front yard as a sparring arena. Sam pulled off the constrictive sweatshirt that used to be Dean’s, letting the cold caress his bare skin. In nothing but pants and a t-shirt with the wind banking the temperature dangerously close to freezing, Sam attuned himself to everything: the sensation of dew-dampened grass between his toes, the way the brisk wind stirred his hair, flattening his bangs against his forehead. Dean, across from and separated by several yards of open space, was a windbreak himself; immovable, the breeze skirting around him.

            “Noticed something kinda interesting when I was watching you fight.” Dean commented, his voice slightly louder to be heard over the wind and across the distance.

            Sam waited in silence, biding his time.

            “You’re good. You’ve got the moves,” Dean’s concentration was evident in his slightly narrowed eyes. “But you went after those bigger guys like a shot in the head, and that’s gonna get you killed.” He lifted his chin slightly. “That’s how Lilith trained you, right? Just wale on the guy until he drops dead?”

            Sam hefted one shoulder in a shrug.

            “All right, forget about that. You can’t face something like a Kee-wakw and just pummel it. You skated by, but, uh,” He gestured to Sam’s ribcage. “Didn’t exactly come out looking like a champ.”

            Sam knew he didn’t have a rebuttal for that.

            “All right,” Dean said again, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “I’m gonna show you how my dad taught me to fight.” He started shifting his feet, the cabin fever taking hold again. “It kinda goes in phases, so it’s gonna be a while before you’re top-tier, like my dad. But we can get there.”

            “What’s top-tier?” Sam asked.

            Dean’s eyes pulled tight at the corners, feathering crow’s feet into his skin. “Couldn’t tell ya. My parents split before he showed me.”

            Sam frowned, and Dean balked. “Don’t you do that. Don’t go feeling sorry for me, Sam.”

            “I wasn’t.” Sam said quietly. “I was thinking you were lucky to have parents.”

            Dean cocked his head slightly. “What, you don’t remember your parents?”

            There was a vivid flash across the backs of Sam’s eyes, light falling through cage bars, Lilith’s face hovering over him. Young and angry and cold. “No.”

            “Hn.” Dean’s eyebrows twitched up. “All right, this isn’t the time for sharing and caring. Let’s get down to business, huh?”

            Sam shrugged off the memory. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

            “All right, eyes on me.” Dean said. “This training goes in phases. Savate, Jujutsu, Kajukenbo and Muay Thai. Four mixed martial arts forms. You spend two months learning in every phrase.”

“Muay Thai’s the one your dad never taught you?”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “Yeah, that’d be it.” He hunkered his stance down. “First phase is Savate. They call it French kickboxing.”

“Dean, hold on a second,” Sam said. “These fights don’t happen in a boxing ring. There aren’t even any referees until the League. No offense, but…I don’t see what good it’s gonna do me to learn martial arts.”

Dean slouched, hooking his thumbs into his pockets and shrugging. “Hey, just because the other guy’s an uncivilized brawler doesn’t mean you can’t brush up on some real skills.” When Sam didn’t concede the point, Dean rubbed one hand across the back of his neck. “Look. You’re friggin’ fast on your feet, man. Weave that into the stuff my dad knows, and you’ll be golden out there.”

Sam sank his feet deeper into the soil, the moist texture oozing between his toes. He’d never known _golden_ , never been more than the least, a creature without a purpose in a sea of stronger, better fighters.

For once, someone was taking a step down to his level. Bending to his strengths rather than trying to contort them into something better.

So when the words “Show me,” slid from between his teeth, Sam wasn’t half as surprised as he’d been the first time he’d looked Lilith straight in the eyes and said, “ _No_.”

Dean flashed a grin, the sun catching on the edge. “Put up your dukes, Sam.”

Sam smiled back. “Why?”

Dean moved swiftly, a hop step forward, swinging a kick toward Sam’s shoulder. It connected, jarring him sideways and lashing tentacles of pain down into his ribs. “Ow! _Dean_!”

“Quit complainin’ and put your hands up!” Dean whirled for another kick, this one clipping Sam in the chest and staggering him back. Before Sam could recover his breath, Dean crowded his space, grabbing his upper arms and shaking him. “You’re faster than this, Sam, come on!”

“You caught me off guard!” Sam protested.

“ _Hands up_!” Dean’s knee snapped toward his stomach and Sam caught it, shoving his leg back down. Dean twisted onto the ball of his foot the second it hit the ground, his shin cracking into Sam’s side.

Winded, Sam backed away, watching Dean narrowly; in all the years he’d been in and out of fights, he’d never faced moves like that. Clean and quick but sharp, a stark contrast to a world of brutality where spine-snapping made your back a vulnerability and the only real means of survival was being faster than the other monster in the ring, landing a fatal blow on him while hoping whatever jabs he slipped past your guard weren’t strong enough to kill you, too.

“Your dad taught you this?”

“Him and this other guy, Bill Harvelle.” Dean seemed content to recede, for the time being. “Taught me everything I know.”

“You don’t fight like a monster.”

“I know.” Dean shrugged off his hoodie, airing out the sweat-blotted shirt underneath. “Pit matches are tough, I’ve seen ’em in action. It’s teeth-to-the-bone out there. But there’s one thing half these sons of bitches don’t have, and that’s training. That’s why you’re gonna beat ’em.”

“Maybe,” Sam replied skeptically.

“Look, would you trust me on this? It’s gonna work.”

Sam still had his reservations, but he swallowed them. “You think we can pull this off in time for Fortescue?”

He didn’t miss the way Dean’s face tilted with happiness at the mention of the Qualifier. “You’re not gonna be throwing demons under the welcome-mat anytime soon, but, yeah, I think we can scrape in another round. We’ll bump you up to Jujutsu around New Year’s, take it from there.”

The thought of dozens of rounds like Lancaster, the meat stripped from his bones, his arm turned into a monster’s chewtoy, made Sam’s insides curdle with nausea. He’d spent too much of his life being something else’s punching bag.

“Sam? Eyes on me.” Dean repeated, and Sam snapped himself out of his miserable thoughts. “I still got your back.”

“I know.” Sam leaned his weight back from the balls of his feet to his heels, holding up his arms defensively. “Show me that move again.”

Dean’s face cut in a wide, wicked grin and he shifted one foot in front of the other, rocking his weight back to front in a shadow-boxing motion.

In an instant, Sam’s mind caught a trace of what was coming: Dean’s kick, aimed for his left side. He snapped his arm up, catching the blow on his forearm and grabbing Dean’s ankle with his free hand. Dean reeled off-balance before Sam let him go.

“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dean crowed.

Sam felt a small kindle of pride in his chest. He spread his arms and dropped his voice to a challenge. “So? Come and get me.”

Dean chuckled sharply. “I’m gonna sweep the freakin’ yard with your face, man.”

The response was instant and biting, something he’d overhead Dean say to Mary when she’d threatened to ground him for staying out too late in the barn, when they’d first begun training. Back when they’d hidden it; no need to hide it now, both John and Mary were well aware of what was happening. “I’d love to see you try.”

Dean cracked his knuckles and lunged.

 

-X-

 

“Dude, the way you nailed that Kappa in the _head_? That was sick!”

John shaded his eyes against a lukewarm mid-afternoon sun, squinting; Dean was perched on the back of the Impala, one leg kicked up on the bumper with Sam lounging on the stack of wood at his feet, leaning back on his elbows, eyes squinted beneath his shaggy hair to mask the recalcitrant glare.

“We heard you the first hundred times you mentioned it, Dean.” John approached them, noticing the way Sam sat up straighter while Dean relaxed.

“We gotta work this joint more often, dad. They have free peanuts.” Dean flicked one to Sam, who caught it in between his lips with a wry smile before tonguing it into his mouth and swallowing it whole.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say _you_ were the one coming down off an adrenaline high, Dean.” John wadded up his leather jacket and threw it into the backseat. They were still airing out the upholstery, which had absorbed a respectable amount of bile when the two hour car-ride had proven to be too much for Sam.

John couldn’t deny, the Fortescue Pit was better than most he’d seen; a converted high-school football stadium had served as the arena, with food served in the grandstands and the gated tunnels left for the Handlers to occupy. It was definitely higher class than most of the joints he’d fought in, but John wasn’t getting comfortable, wasn’t letting himself grow soft; this time next week they’d be back in the Pits.

But that thought alone was cause for celebration.

“Not a bad day.” John leaned against the Impala’s flank, watching the spectators pack and go. Most had brought trucks or sleepers, since Fortescue was East Jesus Nowhere with the closest big city, Chicago, a fair distance away.

“Not bad?” Dean echoed with his mouth stuffed full of over-slated, honey-glazed peanuts. “Sam cleaned house in six rounds! _Six_!”

“Dean,” Sam laughed. “They were mostly untrained, like you said. They were just…desperate. Hungry. I didn’t even have to kill any of them.”

“Too bad.” Dean enunciated clearly, spitting peanut crumbs onto Sam’s jeans.  “You still came out on top.” He straightened up, swallowing and brushing peanut shavings off his palms. “How’s the ankle?”

Sam glanced down at his left leg and John remembered the awkward way he’d stumbled on it after a rapid kick had gone wrong. “It’s fine. Barely even hurts.”

The laminated license felt heavy in John’s pocket; it was an acute and constant reminder that he owed Sam, that the ability John had squandered on a hundred lost matches was now manifest in Dean’s charity case from a Snatcher nest.

All they’d needed was five rounds; Sam had toughed out six, until that ankle had started acting up. And even then, John had been the one to call it, noticing the contortion of pain on Sam’s face and knowing that he wouldn’t be able to stagger through another round that cleanly. And they didn’t need a repeat of Lancaster.

“That’s it.” Dean shoved himself to his feet with a stretch. “Qualifiers are done. Next comes the Prelims.”

And that, John mused, was where he’d meet the most resistance; it hadn’t gone unnoticed by him that Sam and Dean spent literally every waking hour together. Training, eating, Dean playing his guitar while Sam rested, driving the truck down to the river. Precaution had compelled John to follow them once and he’d found them by the muddy bank, chucking rocks into the water and drinking beer. He didn’t know where they’d gotten the beer, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the five dollars missing from the envelope between the couch cushions had traded hands at the mini-mart. But they hadn’t been training, or arguing. Just talking.

John couldn’t remember what it felt like to just talk, to anybody.

So there was that; there was Sam’s attachment, as Mary called it, and the way Dean had attached back. It gave John a feeling of dread to watch Dean wrap his life around training a monster.

And then there was Mary herself. Mary, who was capable of and likely to skin John alive the minute he mentioned bringing Dean to the Prelims. Belly-to-the ground, and dangerous, those fights couldn’t be avoided; they would take John, and anyone with him, to the seediest towns in the States, the long-abandoned cities, to the backside of every good thing they had left. John wouldn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing his battles the way he had with the Qualifiers. Pit fights moved, and you moved with them, or you’d be stuck chasing yourself in circles.

But the fact was, John had been doing the business on his own for twelve years, aside from the rare occasions when he could convince Bobby to help; backsliding into booze and nightmares, deteriorating with a phone in his hand and no one to call. Even if they butted heads constantly, even if John disliked Dean’s rapport with Sam, there was nowhere else he’d rather have Dean than in the seat beside him, singing along to old cassette tapes on the drive to anywhere.

John watched expressionlessly as Dean stuck out his hand to Sam; Sam latched onto Dean’s arm and let himself be pulled to his feet, and in high spirits Dean wrangled Sam into a headlock and knuckled his filthy chestnut hair until Sam bucked loose of his hold and punched Dean’s shoulder, Dean moving with the blow to keep his balance, that Cheshire grin arcing across his face.

There was light in their eyes, and laughter.

An ill sense of foreboding crept into John’s veins.

He didn’t want to think about what was waiting for them in the Prelims.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Eight: Death Camp

 

            Dean was having a bad day.

            It started in the mini-mart, which was really a hoarding station with a backlog of food imported from one the big cities, Chicago or maybe Dallas, Dean wasn’t sure. He knew that the fights had driven most people from their homes, isolating cities until they’d turned into graveyards. What few people hadn’t migrated to the big cities—New York, Chicago, Dallas, Orlando, Nashville, Salt Lake City and Seattle—were living in the middle of nowhere, like Dean’s family. The isolated, last-man-on-earth feeling was generally ruined when need called for a supply run. Like today.

            That was how Dean found himself perusing the shelves over an assortment of cream-filled cupcakes, and finding out he wasn’t the only one with an appetite.

            Her name was Maggie; she had red hair, sparkling eyes and a cheerfulness Dean wasn’t used to seeing outside of a Pit.

            “The ages-old debate, the question that launched a thousand ships.” She said to him by way of greeting. “Ding-Dongs or Twinkies?”

            “What, are you kidding? Ho-Ho’s are God’s friggin’ gift to mankind.” Dean rolled a package off the shelf.

            “I’d be careful with those,” She advised. “They expired a week ago.”

            Dean checked the packaging, deflating with disappointment. “Well, there goes every happiness I ever lived for.”

            “Vicarious death by rotten Ho-Ho.” She poked out her bottom lip and nodded slowly. “At least you’ll make a name for yourself.” She hitched her purse over her shoulder and held out her hand. “Maggie Robertson. Here, let me buy you a Twinkie.”

            “Dean Winchester.” He shook her hand, liking that smile more and more. “And no offense, sweetheart, but I don’t let a girl buy me Twinkies until at least the second date.”

            “Define a date. We’re here alone in a mini-mart except for the half-asleep cashier, and I just saved you from food poisoning. You must have exceptionally high standards.”

            Dean shrugged exaggeratedly. “I mean, I don’t take a girl up on that kinda offer unless she’s slaying dragons for me by this point.”

            “I stepped on a gecko once, if that counts.”

            “Yeah, but you didn’t do it for me.”

            “I did it with the intention that one day I would meet an extremely attractive man in a mini-mart fifteen miles from anywhere, and he’d say exactly what you’re saying, so I could say exactly this, back.”

            That left him stumped for a second. “You got an answer for everything, girl?”

            “Ask me a math question.” She reached past him, the sheer sleeve of her shirt wrapping around her elbow, and Dean spotted a gash of darkness against her inner forearm that surprised him.

            He ducked his head, clearing his throat. “What breed?”

            She shot him a confused look, then glanced at the brand on her arm. Her face softened. “Siren.”

            “Explains why you’re so damn beautiful.”

            She blushed. “I’ve been in this form as long as I can remember. There’s no point in changing; men will always look at me like I’m some piece of meat, even if I look like a ninety-year-old grandma.”

            “Sucks, being a monster.” Dean’s voice adopted a cutting edge.

            Her eyes flashed up to him. “Humans have an awfully cynical viewpoint on my kind. Those things you call _demons_ are even worse. But tell me something, Dean…does it make me a better _person_ than you, that I don’t kill?”

            Dean’s jaw shifted. “What?”

            “I have so much potential. I could tempt you with my song; I could’ve kissed you and had you under my spell, and you would’ve fallen right into it. But here I stand, talking to you about Twinkies. And you stink like a Handler. You throw us under the tires, over and over again. Now you tell me, which one of us is more human?” 

            Rattled, though he refused to show it, Dean tried to adopt a lazy smile. “Underneath all this, I’m not some scaly freak. Strip me down, and I’m just flesh and bone. You’re something else. You’re not _human_.”

            “And that’s all that matters? The skin, the bones underneath it? That’s your equation for humanity?”

            The immediate, vehement _Yes_ got lost on the back of Dean’s tongue as he thought of Sam; Faceless, timid and introverted, for the most part, but the longer they trained the more Dean felt like he was seeing a different side of Sam emerge. It was something open, compassionate. As human as anything Dean had ever seen; sometimes more human than _humans._

“Seems like you know this place pretty well. Means you probably live nearby.” He changed the subject, and Maggie nodded. “You on the run?”

            “Not so much, not anymore.” She rubbed the burn on her arm. “My Handler was killed by men he owed money to. I escaped. They stopped looking for me a few months ago; it pays to live in the middle of nowhere.”

            “You got a job?”

            Maggie shook her head. “I sell things. You’d be surprised what some people leave in their houses when they pack up and move to the big city.” She plucked a Twinkie off the shelf and crinkled the wrapper between her hands. “What about you, Dean? Do you enjoy being a Handler?”

            “It has its perks.” Dean quipped; she watched him patiently, and he cleared his throat, racking his brain. “Can’t think of one off the top of my head.” He cleared his throat again. “You make it a habit of jumping down a guy’s throat the first time you meet him?”

            “Do you make a habit of talking to monsters like they’re human?”

            “Every damn day.” The words somehow lacked the sarcastic punch he’d intended; mostly because they were true.

            “I guess we’re both the odd ones of our species.” Maggie tossed the Twinkie to him and walked away, calling over her shoulder, “Cream-cake’s on me.”

            “Maybe I’ll see you around.” Dean replied.

            She turned to walk backwards, another brilliant smile curving her lips. “You only want me because I’m a Siren.”

            The conversation haunted Dean in the quiet of the truck cab, all the way home; the radio was broken and no songs came to mind to fill up the void. He drove with the windows rolled up against the cold and the heater on full blast; even the incessant hum of the vents and the snarl of the engine weren’t loud enough to erase Maggie’s voice from his head.

            Dean didn’t like the thought of going soft; didn’t like the suggestion that he was down on a monster’s level. Sam was different, Sam was the exception; he was Dean’s charge, the one thing Dean had to protect. Mary was in her element in the old house, more than she’d ever been in New York. Isolated living suited her better; she didn’t need him anymore.

            Sam was the one sleeping on the floor; Sam was the one who sometimes couldn’t sleep because nightmares from his captivity chased circles around his mind. Sam was the one who needed a trainer and a friend, an older brother to watch his back out there. Dean couldn’t land a job, couldn’t make John proud, couldn’t take care of Mary. But hell if he couldn’t take care of Sam.

            It wasn’t a one-way street, either; Dean had done more dumping in the past three weeks than he had in the three years before that. He’d never unloaded on Mary before; Bill and Ellen Harvelle had been too stressed by the job to listen to him. That had left Jo; and while Dean had told her some things, bits and pieces, most of it she’d lived through with him. Things he could never tell John, or Mary. Things that tasted like alcohol and bitter loss, back rooms and flushed green lighting. They stung like cuts and burned like cigarette smoke and felt like Jo’s body tucked against his side, and his knuckles beating against someone’s face.

            Sam could understand because he had a past to match, secrets and dreams that were tinged red instead of green, and felt like a broken neck in his hands or a jetting wound that peeled back his skin. They were two broken halves of a dirty whole, and somehow it felt like evacuating an infected wound when they’d drive out to the river and trade secrets for stones, hurling rocks into the current.

            It never mattered which one was talking; they were finding out that on their base level, they were both jaggedly semi-human, at best. And Dean had never felt it as strongly as he did now, driving away from that mini-mart when any other Handler would’ve taken that girl in and made her his next great fighter.

            He didn’t know right now whether he was the human or the monster.

            It wasn’t until he pulled up at the house that Dean’s day went from bad, to worse.

            The warning signs were there: the old firepit beside the shed was smoking languidly, lit for the first time since Dean and Mary had come home in September; the screen door was bolted shut from the inside. Dean yanked on the handle a few times, then knocked. “Hey, anybody here?”

            He heard a distant crash from inside the house, pounding footsteps that made him stiffen tight with awareness. The inside door ricocheted on its hinges, and Dean caught a glimpse of Sam’s panicked eyes, his long fingers fumbling at the latch, before a hand grabbed onto his collar and threw him backwards into the room.

            Dean yanked the screen door open, almost catching himself across the nose with it as he sprang into the living room, looking for something to fight, someone to beat down.

            Confusion snagged him in his tracks when he realized there wasn’t an enemy: there was Mary, standing with her hands braced on the doorposts of the kitchen’s narrow entryway; there was Sam, crawling backwards into the corner of the living room, his eyes frantic and hair falling across his forehead; and there was John, standing over Sam with a sparkling red-hot crowbar in his hands.

            “Whoa, whoa!” Dean snarled. “Time out!” He stepped between John and Sam, arms outstretched defensively. “Dad, what the hell is goin’ on? What’s with the flaming sword, huh?”

            John was breathing raggedly, his eyes smoking with anger. “He demolished the bathroom upstairs.”

            “So, what, you’re gonna _set him on fire_?”

            “I need to brand him, Dean.” John’s voice was measured with forced patience but his expression told tales of fury. Sam’s back had hit the wall by now and he wasn’t moving, but the foot that brushed against Dean’s leg was trembling.

            The brand. Right. Sam had been with them for two months, now; Lilith’s mark couldn’t stay on him forever. But with the air hanging bitter with unease and his own anger making him see scarlet spots, Dean planted his feet and didn’t move.

            “Nobody’s branding anybody.”

            “This fight is just starting.” John insisted. “If you want him out there, people need to know who he is. Out on the circuit, that _matters_. You saw the way Gordon treated that Shifter because it was wearing Rufus Turner’s mark instead of ours.”

            Dean didn’t miss the inflection, the plural, that this was _him and John and Mary_ instead of just John. He wasn’t sure when they’d taken that step, but they’d crossed a line. Right now, they were straddling another one.

            “Dean,” John’s voice was a rasp. “We need people to know he belongs to us.”

            Dean glanced at Sam over his shoulder; Sam’s frantic eyes darted from John’s face to Dean’s, an unspoken plea masked under his stare. He scooted closer to the wall, hips, spine, shoulders hitting the wood, head tilted back. The same scared animal they’d brought in the first day.

            _Property_. Sam thought he was their property, just some piece of meat. And what were they doing that would prove him wrong? The first time they needed something of him that he didn’t want, he went back to just being their monster piece in the big game.

            _Property_.

            Sam’s eyes begged him, _No, Dean. No_.

            The choice was slipping out of their hands and making them say _Thank you_ while it left. “You do this, that makes him one of us. You get that?” He silently cussed out Maggie Robertson for being right about him.

            John’s expression flickered with untold emotion. “Just do your job and hold him down.” Without turning his head, he addressed Mary: “Could you grab us a wet rag, some of those bandages from upstairs, and rope?”

            “You don’t need to truss him up, I’ll do it!” Dean growled.

            “It’s just in case.” John said soothingly.

            Dean didn’t feel soothed as he turned his back on John, blocking him out; he could see by the flash of betrayal in Sam’s eyes that there was no miscommunication or misunderstanding between them. Sam knew exactly what was coming and knew that Dean was doing nothing to stop it.

            “Hey.” Dean gripped Sam’s shoulder, giving him a light shake until Sam looked up, wet eyes meeting intent eyes. “I said I’d watch your back, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Now scoot.”

            Sam blinked at him, clearly confused, and Dean shook off a forbidding feeling at the fact that Sam wasn’t speaking. He kept one hand on Sam’s shoulder and used the other to push him forward as Mary ran down the stairs, a damp washcloth and the bandages in her hands. No rope. Dean could’ve kissed her.

            Instead, he focused on Sam.

            Gripping handfuls of Sam’s shirt, Dean heaved him forward and slid behind him, trapping Sam’s gangly form between his outstretched legs. He bent himself around Sam, digging his heel into Sam’s ankle and folding Sam’s left arm down against his chest, pinning it there; leaving his right arm free for John’s advances.

            “You trust me?” Dean breathed in Sam’s ear, and an arrested, jerky nod was the answer. Dean flattened Sam’s hand over his own heart. “Then focus on this. S’long as your heart’s beating, this is nothing. Got it?”

            John scooted forward on his heels, a compassion in his eyes that Dean hadn’t seen there before. He didn’t know which of them it was directed at. “Keep him steady.”

            John took Sam’s wrist in his hand and Dean tightened his hold on Sam’s body, meeting Mary’s eyes for a moment. They were wide, iridescent, and plunging with thought.

            The minute the crowbar met his skin, Sam’s entire body spasmed in Dean’s hold. Dean cocked one leg up, pinning Sam’s knee to the floor as he bucked and thrashed. By contrast John went almost completely still, rotating the burning metal up the brand on Sam’s arm with a practiced, measured stroke. Dean swallowed and held his breath against the acrid stench of burning flesh, watching the blisters form over Lilith’s name, erasing it.

            Sam’s left arm ripped free of Dean’s hold, but he didn’t lash out; his palm slapped down on Dean’s thigh, fingernails digging into the denim there, creating half-moon dips in the skin underneath that Dean could feel but he couldn’t see. It stung; couldn’t sting half as bad as that crowbar.

            When John pulled the tool back, Sam sagged over the arm Dean had braced around his chest. His breaths came in staggered rasps, a moan of pain punctuating every gust from his lungs.

            “Halfway done, pal.” Dean assured him.

            “I’ll need the brand.” John creaked to his feet.

            “John, hurry.” Mary whispered.

            He was gone, out the door and into the blustery autumn day. Sam squirmed in Dean’s grip, clearly uncomfortable, his burned arm lying stretched out on Dean’s leg. At least his grip had loosened; Dean could feel bruises seeping under the skin of his thigh.

            “Hell of a grip, Sam.”

            “Language.” Mary said.

            “Sam?” Dean jostled him slightly. “Hey, you still with us?”

            A long, painful, wet-sounding breath oozed out of Sam’s lungs, his forehead almost hitting his knee as he listed dangerously sideways; probably on the verge of passing out from the pain.

            “No, no, no.” Dean said quickly. “Stay with us, Sam.”

            The creak of the screen door announced that John was back, this time with a curved branding iron that spelled their family name in willowy-thin, sharp-edged letters.

            “Are you sure that won’t cut through his skin?” Mary rested a hand on the side of her neck. “Thin brands sometimes do.”

            “Bobby and I got this one set up just right.” John’s tone was strangely calming, the voice of a man talking down a wild animal as he approached Sam and Dean. “Still got him, Dean?”

            “We’re good. Just do it.”

            John pulled in a long, steadying breath, then pressed the brand to Sam’s arm.

            Sam’s entire body went rigid, electric, from his bare feet to the bend of his neck. He arched backwards, his spine digging into Dean’s ribcage, his head falling back against the curve of Dean’s shoulder as the brand sank against his flesh for one—two—four—ten seconds. Dean clapped his free hand to Sam’s forehead, feeling a flush like residual heat racing under the palm of his hand.

            “Come on, Sam, don’t pass out on me,” He muttered.

            “Done.” John released his unyielding grip on Sam’s wrist that had held his arm in place. Mary was beside them in an instant, with the water and bandages, and Dean met her eyes levelly.

            “I’ll take care of it.”

            “Dean.” John began.

            “Go. I got him.”

There was a beat of silence while Dean wondered what he might have to do to make them leave; then John took Mary’s arm and drew her to her feet, backing them both away. “Call us if he acts up.”

He went outside, and Dean heard a thudding impact like a boot hitting the side of the house. He flashed a glance Mary’s way, and with a nod to him she hurried outside after John.

Dean finally relaxed, sliding his hand off of Sam’s forehead. “Sam, you good?”

Sam groaned, long and low, his body sagging again in Dean’s grip, his head turning into the side of Dean’s neck, like hiding. “God, I hate you.”

            “Sure you do.” Dean chuckled, the sound slightly forced. “Let me clean up that arm for ya.”

            “No, De—” Sam shook his head, beating his cheek against Dean’s collarbone. “If I move…m’gonna throw up.”

            Sympathy washed through Dean. “All right, we’ll hang tight until your stomach’s good.” He tucked his chin over the top of Sam’s head; it had always made him feel better, anyway, when Mary had done that to him.

            Sam’s legs curled up toward his body. “Hurts, D’n. It hurts.”

            “I know, pal.”

            Sam pressed a hand over his own heart, his breathing slowing.

            They stayed that way for a while.

 

-X-

 

            John ripped the punching bag from the joists, throwing it across the barn and hearing it thump satisfyingly over the straw.

            He didn’t care that Mary was behind him, a witness to his violent outburst. He was choking on anger and hurt feelings and indecision.

            “John!” Mary descended the steps into the center of the barn, her voice a dagger slicing neatly through his fog of rage. “What in the world is the matter with you?”

            John whirled on heel and stormed back toward, their faces inches apart. “That _thing_ in there is not human, Mary! But it has the nerve to act like a child, hell, it _looks_ like a child! I feel like I just tortured an innocent boy!”

            “That’s because you did, John.” Mary’s voice didn’t match his for volume, but for passion they might’ve been speaking the same.

            “Bullshit. He’s a monster like any other monster I’ve ever Handled.”

            “Then you walk back in that house and tell that to your son!”

            The air snapped with a tart feeling of contempt. “Dean’s young. He has a lot to learn yet about what this life means. He’ll outgrow his attachment to Sam.”

            “And if he doesn’t? If five months or five years from now, Dean still wants to see Sam as human, as a part of his life? What are you going to do, John? You can’t look down on him like this forever.”

            “The fights will shape him up.”

            Mary stepped back, folding her arms. “So, that’s it. You’re taking him along.”

            “Apparently, he’s the only one who can keep that animal in there from going into full-on rebellion.” The furious words leaped from John’s mouth in a torrent, a caustic need to draw a dividing line between them and Sam.

            The air was heavy with silence for a minute. “He almost went to jail, John.”

            A feeling of groundlessness filtered into John’s veins. “A jail. In _New York_?”

            “I don’t know how it happened, he should’ve been in class. I don’t think he was even going to school anymore by then. He was supposed to be…fire science. A firefighter. But one day I open the door and a law-officer pushes him inside and says if Dean’s ever caught within a mile of a fight, he’ll go straight to prison.”

            “You know they won’t enforce it.” John said. “There’s no law out here, Mary. No law officers, either. We make the law. Outside of the cities, Dean’s not in any danger.”

            “I _understand that._ Do _you_ understand what I’m telling you, John? I’m not worried about you losing.” Mary’s voice was soft. “I’m worried about you winning and taking Dean far enough through this to put him back on the law’s radar. I’m afraid that you _can_ make it to the Leagues.”

            Her faith in him rattled John almost as much as anything else; it threw the oddness of this entire conversation into stark contrast before him. That, after everything, winning would put his family at risk; that making it to the League with Dean by his side could land his son in a Death Camp.

            Big cities were controlled by demons; demons didn’t like people of a certain caliber having access to the Pits. And apparently, Dean had gotten on their bad side.

            “I’ll make you a deal.” John said. “Let me take Dean with for the Prelims. If by some miracle Sam makes it as far as the Leagues, we can split the winnings from every round he’s won by then. You and Dean will have enough to keep you going wherever you wanna be, and Sam and I will keep up the fight without you.”

            Mary wavered on the edge of hesitation, then nodded. “Okay, John.”

            He was left wrestling with a sudden feeling of sadness, and confusion besides as to why he’d been hoping she’d say _No_.

 

-X-

 

            Manchester, New Hampshire smelled like piss and vinegar and glowed like lights on Christmas Eve.

            They’d rolled into town the day before the Prelim with the intention of familiarizing Sam with the layout. The brand on his arm still mending, Sam hadn’t said much; he’d slept most of the way with his forehead against the window and his body curled across the backseat. He’d pretended John didn’t exist; the effort had been mutual. Dean had been left feeling like the sole force holding back a storm.

            Manchester was hanging somewhere between decay and nightlife, most of the buildings gutted and rotting but the Verizon Arena, a hub of activity and interest before fights had purged the economy right out of prosperity, was still standing. In fact, it had been converted into a Pit.

            After they’d taken a quick look inside, John had crossed paths with a Handler he didn’t owe money to, and they’d gotten to talking. Dean had thought it in his best interest to saunter off in search of a drink, with Sam following, hunched-shouldered and splashing through puddles left over from a recent rain.

            That was how they’d found this place: a bright green neon sign out front declared it ‘The Captain’s Ship’, and it was barely more than a hole in the wall between two cluttered, paint-peeling former businesses. But it was the first bar Dean had seen since before he’d left New York, and he’d stepped inside without reservation.

            He was two beers down and working through his third, and the place was starting to look friendly. The riggings and sailor paraphernalia weren’t looking tacky anymore so much as adorable. And Sam leaning crossed arms on the counter, still working through his first beer, seemed less annoying and more awkwardly funny.

            “How’s that arm?” Dean asked, pointing to it with the long neck of the bottle.

            “You suck,” Sam complained. Something Dean had learned during days spent by the river: Sam was a lightweight. Half a beer and his tongue loosened up. A whole one and he’d be open for banter.

            “I’m awesome.” Dean spun the bar stool around to observe the room; most of the people had an air of Handlers around them. The thing Maggie must’ve picked up on from him; it was reserve masquerading as friendliness. The secrets they seemed to share were lies slipping out of their sleeves; when someone asked someone else who they thought looked good for a fight, they were really asking _What kind of monster do you have?_

            It was a tricky way of talking and Dean stayed out of it; he prided himself, though, in being the only person here who was drinking beer with a fighter.

            “Hey, Sam, you think you’re special?” Dean leaned his elbows back on the counter and sniffed.

            “Um. Not really. Why?”

            “Seems like you are.” Dean cocked his head sideways without taking his eyes off the patrons of the bar. “Seems like you are one lucky mon—”

            Sam clapped a hand over Dean’s mouth. “Don’t say it.”

            “Right.” Dean mumbled against Sam’s hand, pulling on his wrist. “Guy. You are one…lucky guy.”

            Sam smiled and tilted his head back, taking another drink. “And you’re drunk.”

            “That…I am.” Dean conceded.

            There was a burst of laughter from the corner, the bell over the entryway tinkling as the door swished inward. Dean closed his eyes, letting sounds and smells and warmth saturate him from inside and out. A bar shouldn’t be this peaceful; they’d left Mary behind with guarded eyes, her hand on his cheek a silent request for him to be careful. Leaving her had been easier than Dean would have thought possible.

Seasons were changing.

There was a ricochet, a clatter that startled his eyes open. Dean blinked at the sight of a tall stranger in long coat with the hood popped up, picking himself up off the back of Sam’s stool. Looked like he’d tripped into it, slamming into Sam’s back.

“My mistake. Didn’t see you there.” The man’s voice oozed with a saccharine sweet apology. Dean’s eyes narrowed, a chill of caution scampering up his back.

“It’s fine.” Dean cuffed Sam’s shoulder, noticing that the man was standing close, almost chest-to-back with Sam. “No harm, no foul.” The guy didn’t catch a hint. “Look, me and my brother here were havin’ a private conversation. You mind?”

The man’s eyes were hidden beneath the shade of a porkpie hat that he tipped Dean’s way. “Have a good one, boys.”

Sam’s head lifted, swiveling to follow the man out; even in a shroud of beer, Dean noticed the way Sam’s forehead crinkled, that adorable—Dean really _was_ drunk—expression of confusion on his face.

“Problem?” Dean asked.

“No, I just thought I…” Sam trailed off, “Nevermind,” and turned back to face Dean, chin almost tucking onto his shoulder as he rested his outstretched arms on the counter and fiddled with his bottle. “You know you called me your brother, right?”

Dean felt a piercing discomfort that he buried in another toss of beer. “Yeah, well, wasn’t like I could call you my…” He broke off at Sam’s unhappy, narrowed-eyed look. “Right.” Dean banged his beer down on the counter. “We oughta go. You need a good night’s…how come nobody ever says ‘bad night’s sleep’?”

            “They do, Dean.” Sam heaved a longsuffering sigh, pushing his hands into his pockets and getting to his feet.

            “ _I’ve_ never heard ’em.”

            “That’s because you don’t listen to anyone.” Sam shoved the door out of the way with his shoulder, stepping out onto the street. Dean followed him, feeling like there was a misconception here that needed fixing.

            “I do, too! I listen to _you_!”

            “Yeah, only when it’s—”

            Dean missed the rest, because a hand grabbed the back of his jacket and yanked him sideways, throwing him against the wall of the moldering building next to the bar. Stars burst like diamonds in front of his eyes.

            “ _Dean_!” Sam whipped around to face him, hearing the impact, maybe, and Dean blinked up, realizing there was a man standing between him and Sam; a man with a couple of friends behind him.

            The man in front, with several shades of scruff and beady, narrowed eyes, stepped closer. “I remember seein’ you in Junction City. You’re John Winchester’s buddy, ain’t ya? You ride with him and that washout, Singer?”

            “Who’s asking?” A feeling of wariness prickled at Dean, wrangling through the blur of the alcohol.

            “Name’s Roy. Got a beef with your friend John and I was wonderin’ if you could take a message to him.”

            “Write it down.” Dean drawled. “You dumb backwoods hicks can read and write, can’t you?”

            Roy’s fist coming toward his face was dizzyingly fast, too fast for Dean to block it; before it could make contact with his cheekbone, it was stopped, caught in the palm of somebody else’s hand.

            Sam threw Roy’s arm down to his side. “Leave him alone.”

            Roy rubbed a hand over his lower lip. “You in our business, boy?” His colleagues crowded around him, tasting a fight on the air.

            “Back off.” Sam warned him. “Don’t make me say it again.”

            “Damn straight we won’t. You’re not gonna have any teeth left for talking.”

            “Sam.” Dean snagged the back of his jacket. “You go right, I’ll go left. Savate. Oh, and, uh…try not to kill anyone.”

            Sam bobbed his head.

            They exploded, their backs coming off the wall; Sam taking Roy smack down on the pavement while Dean went right in between the two wingmen, snapping kicks into their groins and midsections and loving the way the buzz of the beer made everything feel a hundred times more vivid, like turning up every light and cranking the sound.

            By the time he came back into himself, Dean had dropped both of the men cold and Sam had left Roy clutching his kneecap and crying like a baby on the asphalt.

            “Dude, we make an awesome team.” Dean joined him, standing above Roy. “What’d you do?”

            “I think I kicked his knee out of alignment,” Sam’s expression was contrite. Dean clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and bent over, puffing with laughter. “What?”

            “God, that’s….you beating up human. Must be a nice change, huh?”

            Sam’s eyes went taut. “Look, can we just go?”

            They walked back in the general direction of the Verizon Arena, Dean’s head clearing more with every step. They emerged across the street from the Pit, the Impala in sight, when Sam put out a hand to stop Dean, and turned to face him.

            “I don’t like hurting humans. I don’t like hurting monsters, either. I do it because I have to do it.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not a demon. I’m not like them.”

            “Okay? Sure.” Dean agreed. “So, why stop Roy? The dude obviously had a bone to pick, you had to know it was gonna turn into a fight.”

            “It was him or you.”

            Dean flicked him a half-smile. “C’mon, let’s go.”

            They crossed the street to find John waiting for them in the car, the radio cranked on; Ozzy Osbourne’s _Crazy Train_ rattled through the speakers. They opened their doors and slid in, and John sat up straight.

            “I got a lead on a motel just outside of town.” He said without preamble. “Should be good for the night.”

            Two beds, Dean thought. It wouldn’t be a problem; Sam still slept on the floor every night. “Sounds like a plan.”

            John sniffed, his face creasing at the tint of alcohol that still hung from their clothes. “You boys run into any trouble out there?”

            Dean met Sam’s eyes in the rearview mirror with a grin, and they chorused: “No, sir.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Nine: Enter Azazel

 

     Dean was fighting monsters.

            The confrontation outside of the bar found its way into his dreams, pitting him against a slew of creatures with no backup and no real means of killing them. He battled his way through a storm of enemies, panicked, until he surfaced in cold sweat to nicotine-colored walls and the smell of coffee, the bed across from him empty and neatly made.

The scratchy comforter of the Manchester motel felt like a straightjacket as Dean rolled over, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. The dream was already fading, like dreams often do, so distant within the first few seconds that he couldn’t grab the finer details anymore. His body still held the memories in the sweaty dip of his throat and the hollow of his back, aching from the uncomfortable bed, but he remembered taking a punch there in his dream.

He glanced down at the foot of the bed and a grin found its way through the wrong-side-of-the-bed feeling that always came after a bad dream; Sam was curled under a blanket that looked just as uncomfortable as Dean’s, gradually coming around with slow blinks and an exaggerated, eye-scrunching yawn.

“Morning,” Sam mumbled.

“Mornin’ yourself.” Dean threw off the comforter and stretched. “You seen dad?”

“He’s not here?” Sam yawned, again, and Dean watched with the morbid fascination of wondering if someone could yawn so wide he dislocated his jaw.

“Uh, nope.” Swinging off the bed, Dean crammed himself into the shoebox-sized bathroom, finding himself unbelievably grateful to have a home to go back to and not a lifetime of dives like this. He cranked on the cold faucet and cupped handfuls of water over his face, chasing away the sticky, sweaty closeness of sleep, hearing the television click on in the main room as Sam woke himself up.

Blotting his face and neck with one of the stained complimentary towels, Dean joined Sam, leaning against the door and watching faces flicker in black and white across the screen. “ _Leave it to Beaver_ , huh?”

“How old is this?” Sam looked fascinated, his eyes soaking in the images.

“Sixties, I guess?” Dean grabbed his hoodie and yanked it on over his head. “Ever watched TV before?”

Sam shook his head, too absorbed to pay attention to Dean.

“Yeah, well, it’s all crappy reruns, anyway. That station’s been playing _Beaver_ on a loop since we moved to New York.” Lobbing the towel into the sink, Dean dropped in an unceremonious sprawl on the foot of his vacated bed.

“Why?” Sam folded his legs Indian-style, his ankles peeking out from the cuffs of his too-short sweats.

“Nobody cares enough to pay for it,” Dean explained. “Only thing that didn’t get bumped to repeats in the nineties was the League fights.”

“ _Why_?” Sam repeated.

“’Cause everyone pulled out. Businesses tanked, Hollywood went under. Government threw in the towel, called it quits, _gave up_. No more presidents, no more military. It’s just us, runnin’ ourselves into the dirt.”

“We could change it,” Sam said. “Hey, we could make our own TV show.”

“Yeah, with what _plot_? The two of us? Huh? Some prime-time program about two jackasses on the road, doing…what? Hunting monsters?” Dean snorted. “Like that would ever sell. Dream on, pal.”

“Like you were dreaming last night?” Sam asked, tilting his head back to meet Dean’s frown. “I heard you moving around.”

“Mind your own business.” Dean griped.

“If you want to talk, Dean, I’ll listen.”

Dean’s answer was to hold out his hand. “Lemee see your arm.”

“Dean…”

“ _Sam_. Let me see it.”

Grudgingly, Sam scooted around to face him, holding up his bandaged arm. Dean unwrapped the dressing, examining the blistering brand of the family name on Sam’s skin. It was somewhere between a blemish and a badge of honor. Dean noticed how Sam’s muscles twitched involuntarily at the brush of Dean’s thumb over the wound.

“Still hurt?”

Sam shrugged. “Not as much.”

Dean gave Sam back his arm as the motel door opened; John tossed a paper sack to Dean by way of greeting.

“Awesome, hot food for once.” Dean scuffled a hand around inside, producing a greasy cheeseburger.

“There’s one for Sam.” John shrugged out of his jacket. “I already ate.”

“Here.” Dean handed the bag to Sam.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

Dean glared at him. “You’re gonna be goin’ like a machine for the next six hours, Sam. You need some food. Eat.”

Sam didn’t argue, obediently ripping into the burger patty and bun but only getting about halfway through before he pushed wrapper, bag and food toward the bed and stood. “How much longer?”

“Forty-five minutes.” John said. “Dean.”

“Mmmf-hmm?” Dean segued himself back into focus, enjoying his cheeseburger too much to be bothered about the interruption to his wandering thoughts.

“You and Sam are tier-training, aren’t you?”

Dean swallowed. “Uh, yeah?”

“Good.” John nodded, which probably meant, _Good thing you’re taking care of it, because I wouldn’t._ “Are you still on first tier?”

“Well, yeah, dad, it’s not like we’re skipping steps, here. If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right.” Dean replied. “I’m not takin’ a risk on Sam’s life.”

“Every fight is a risk on his life.” John admonished. “Get packed. We’re rolling out in ten minutes.”

Dean mocked-saluted him, then rolled off the bed, grabbed his duffle bag and pulled out a pair of jeans, yanking them on over his boxers. “You heard the man, Sam. Suit up and roll out.”

Sam didn’t move, an awkward curve to his shoulders. “What am I supposed to wear? I mean, shirts get in the way, right?”

“Dude, quit bein’ a girl and just put on some clothes,” Dean groaned.

Five minutes later they were in the car, Dean with his hands pressed to the heating vents as they drove away from the motel. Sam fidgeted in the backseat, like he always did for the first few minutes in the car; it struck Dean as funny that Sam, who was a few inches taller than him and about even with John, could warp himself into the little space between the front and back seats so he could rest his crossed arms on the bench-back.

“Any last-minute advice?” Sam’s voice was wound so tight, Dean didn’t have to look at him to know how wide his eyes would be, and slanting backwards, his forehead whorled with dread.

“Yeah. Don’t get yourself killed.” John answered bluntly. After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, he flexed his grip on the wheel and grumbled, “First tier means Savate. For the most part, you’ll be facing humanoids or half-breeds. That means they’re all vulnerable in the places that we are: heads, chests, stomachs.”

“Balls,” Dean added.

“Crotch-shots are considered bad sportsmanship, even in a Pit-fight. It’s not bloody enough.” John dismissed that piece of advice. “But in a pinch, if it’s all you can hit, wale on him where it counts.”

Sam’s dimples made an appearance. “Yes, sir.”

The parking lot of the Verizon Arena was already flooding by the time they pulled up and climbed out; Sam was a nervous six-foot-four ball of energy, pacing laps around the car while John hunted out his brand-new license and led them to the check-in counter, which was set up outside right in the path of the northern wind. Dean didn’t envy the guy working tickets out there.

He flipped his hood up over his hair and followed John to the counter; there was a perfunctory exchange of words, a low-light flash across glossy laminate, and Dean watched Sam. Watched him fidgeting nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Human skin stretched tight over raw nerves. Dean nudged him.

“Hey, you’re gonna be fine.”

But Sam was not going to be fine, and that made itself apparent when they stepped into the dim tunnel that fed through to the arena. One look at Sam’s paling, green-tinged face and Dean told John to save him a seat. He barely had time to grab Sam around the middle before Sam was spewing cheeseburger all over the inside of the tunnel, to the vulgar and discordant cussing from passersby.

“Just keep walking,” Dean warned a few spectators who slowed for a better look. “Keep going.” He had one arm looped around Sam and the other braced on the wall beside Sam’s head, creating a barrier with his body between the scathing looks and Sam’s retching form.

One minute, two minutes, and finally Sam was bearing his own weight, his forehead pressed to the wall. Dean scooted around beside him, trying to catch his eye.

“You, uh…you think you’re done?”

Sam groaned, _No_ , and bent over again. But this time it was just mucous and ropes of saliva that ran through his gritted teeth, no more bile or half-chewed food. When he was done, Dean tugged on Sam’s shoulder, insistent, pulling him around and gripping the sides of his face. Sam’s pupils were dilated to pinpricks, lonely stars in a glassy gray-brown iris sky. Dean’s thumbs pressed into the hollows of Sam’s cheekbones, feeling the ridges of his teeth.

“What’s that all about, huh?” He asked.

 _Scared_ , Sam’s eyes said, his lips pressed into a muted white line.

“It’s a big job, yeah.” Dean agreed. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

 _I know,_ Sam’s defeated posture said. _Let’s go_ , down the tunnel, one hand to the wall. Dean followed him.

They emerged into the riot of activity, Sam cleaning his mouth on his hand. The burn mark on his arm, all that he was stripped and bare and buttermilk-sallow under the lights springing down from steel rafters. Dean gripped Sam’s shoulder until he was steady on his feet, spotted John further down the row, beckoning them.

“Go.” He thrust Sam gently forward. “I’m right behind you.”

Every downward step was a hammerstrike into Dean’s pelvis, the touch of his boots on concrete collecting the vibrations of raised voices; his teeth seemed to shiver with the thumping bass of pre-fight music that blared from ancient speakers strung on steel cords behind the lights.

John peered at Sam from under a thatch of curly hair. “What happened?”

“Too much food,” Dean explained. “What’s the plan?”

“There’s a holding room. They’ll release him for his fight.” John cradled the back of his head in folded hands, turning toward the sunken floor of the Verizon Arena. “Better sit tight, it’s gonna be a long one today.”

“I’ll get him set up.” Dean bolstered Sam with his shoulder toward the set of stairs that would lead down to the lowest level of the stadium.

“Dean,” Sam said, moving in so close their elbows were brushing. “This isn’t gonna work.”

“It’ll work.” Dean replied. “Sam, trust me. We’ve got this. Just remember what I taught you, all right?”

He vaulted the gate that wrapped around the lower level of the grandstands, landing with his flat feet on the slick bottom of the Pit. He could feel an anticipation rising like steam from the floor, lusting for the upcoming bloodshed.

There was a door to his left that led through another tunnel, one that had ushered in basketball teams and musical stars in decades past. At the far end was a converted locker room, cages lining the walls, and if the bloodlust was evident outside it was worse in here.

“One of these oughta have your name,” Dean paced the row of cages, ignoring the snarls of monsters waiting for discharge. He flicked cage card after cage card until he saw one with _WINCHESTER_ scrawled in hasty marker. “Guess this is it.”

Sam was a statue of granite behind him, buried under his thick jacket and disheveled hair, staring at the cage bars.

“Dean? No.”

It was a question and it was begging and it wasn’t fair, because Dean didn’t want this for him any more than Sam wanted it for himself.

“We’re running outta time.” Dean traced shapes in the wall with his gaze, refusing to meet Sam’s distressed eye, because if he did he would probably end up sitting in this sweat-rancid hellhole until the fight started, just to keep Sam company.

This is where their worlds split, paths diverted, roles divided. Sam was a monster and Dean was a Handler.

 _Property_.

Sam shuffled forward, slowly, into the cage, stopping just over the threshold and waiting for the door to clatter shut behind him. Dean hesitated before he slid it closed, the lock clanging into its groove, and then he slapped the flat of his hand against the bars.

“I’ll see you on the other side.”

He passed two men with steel cables in their hands moving down the tunnel, and there was a silent prayer ebbing through his veins, more profound than blood, hoping that they weren’t going in there for Sam.

Dean pushed himself up the stadium wall and grabbed the bottom of the gate, a strong hand on the far side gripping his elbow and hauling him over. He landed beside John, brushing his hands clean on the sides of his jacket.

“How is he?” John asked.

“Scared. Since when do you care?”

John shot him a look of pure frustration before leading the way back to the stairs.

Their seats were high up, rows back from the gate, but not so far that they couldn’t see the arena. Dean wriggled his hips against the hard back of the orange bucket-chair, feet tapping wildly, fingers following the beat on his knees.

“Relax,” John encouraged. “You’ll make yourself sick with worry if you keep fidgeting like that.”

“Dad—”

“ _Relax_.”

Grumbling, Dean curled his fingers into the denim of his jeans; he counted up from one to one hundred, started over. The lights glazed, dimming low; the music siphoned off and the crowd, taking its cue, fell silent.

Twin, razor-blue spotlights circled the stadium; the announcer’s booming voice took over the speakers, publicizing something about this event being the Verizon Arena’s five-hundredth hosted fight. Wound tight, Dean hardly paid attention. Nothing else mattered from the moment the first pair of monsters funneled in from the cages.

Dean found himself on his feet, the blue lights cutting glass across his profile and the chants of excitement from the spectators making him almost immediately drunk on anticipation as, below him, Sam stood highlighted in a circle of light, his head turned up, his eyes searching Dean out of the crowd.

Dean grinned spreading his arms in a wide shrug, _At least you’re not in the cage_.

Sam flipped him off—something he’d probably picked up from watching Dean interact with John—and appreciative screams launched the fight into action.

Manchester wasn’t like Fortescue; it wasn’t like Lancaster. It wasn’t home, where fights existed inside a bound set of rules and on some basic level, everything made sense. It was fists punching through skin like a bite, knuckles leaving teeth-marks on flesh; it was gashes ripped through tender skin; it was the burn on your hand from a monster’s scruff, the feeling of the thing’s talons striking discord into your bones.

It was the crunch of legs together, the snap of ribs that would hurt like a flame to the palm of your hand when you breathed; it was swallowing gasoline and breathing in acid and exhaling fire. Dean could smell the bittersweet, crummy stench of sweat as it poured from the bodies around him. He was never off his feet, gripping the back of the empty seat in front of him. The bass collision of background music to the fight pounded in the base of his skull; the Verizon Arena hadn’t forgotten it used to be a musicians’ venue. The air hung heavy with sweet smoke and the yells of onlookers, speaking in the tongues of the _fight_ , of the _Pit_ , a language that had breathed through the gutters of New York City and called Dean’s name for years before he’d finally given in.

All he saw was Sam.

Sixteen competitors, pairs and pairs, working their way up toward the top. Dean didn’t have a name for all of them, but he vowed that one day he would learn; he vowed it over the chunk of flesh that went missing from Sam’s shoulder. He prayed it into the gash that came streaking down Sam’s thigh from ripping teeth. He swore it under Sam’s body when he hit the floor on hands and elbows, before he vaulted himself back to his feet.

Sam didn’t move like the rest of them.

Monsters, all monsters, fought like desperate, flighty animals. Beaten, abused, starved into fighting for their next meal, their next fix in some cases, for the next breath in their scarred lungs. They were all hopeless, dead-end cases, pathetic, miserable wastes of space and air. Sloppy sacks of misery wrapped in skin.

Sam wasn’t like them.

He moved with purpose, with the quickness and lightness he’d brought with him, and the Savate training Dean had been drilling into him every day for weeks. Kicks slid in where unvarnished fighters didn’t expect: rattling their skulls, dislocating their kneecaps, tripling their vision with pain. Sam killed the ones that he had to; others he held down until the chants of the countdown gave way to victory.

And then—somehow—four hours later, they were standing on the back end of a match, and no one in the audience seemed to believe it as the high lights caught the blistering _Winchester_ brand on Sam’s arm, and the announcer was booming over the thumping bass, something about _unbelievable talent_ and _real fighting moves_. There was more chatter than fanfare, more interest than an insatiable need for violence.

John’s hand on Dean’s shoulder got him moving through the masses pushing toward the exit, threading through a swell of bodies and catching himself on the gate, looking down at Sam.

“Yo, Winchester!” He hollered. “Not bad!”

Sam cocked a look his way, recognition dawning on an exhausted face. He stretched up and Dean reached down, grabbed his arm and pulled Sam over the gate. He set him up on his feet, holding him steady.

“You good?”

“I’m great, yeah.”

Dean split a crows-foot grin. “What was with you flipping me the bird, huh? You even know what that means?”

“It means you were being a jerk.” Sam replied; his eyes drifted to half-mast, then blinked open wide. He frowned across the arena, cocking his head.

“What?” Dean craned his neck, searching for whatever had snagged Sam’s attention. “You see a pretty girl?”

Sam was frozen solid, a cold dread seeping off his skin, head still tilted; listening. Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s face. “Hey! Earth to Sam! You in there, pal?”

Sam shook himself suddenly, violently, swaying on his feet. “What? Yeah, no, I’m good. I’m right here. What?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, Dean. Just…thought I heard something.” Sam assured him. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh…” Dean studied him, feeling a tinge of doubt in his belly, but with John elbowing his way through the crush of bodies to join them, there wasn’t time for more questions. “Ready to split, dad?”

“Not quite.” John smiled broadly. “We’ve got some winnings to collect.” He cuffed Sam on the arm. “Good fight.”

“Thanks.” Sam ducked his head

They ended up sitting outside the front office of the stadium while John collected the money from the bets that had been placed on Sam’s head; Dean with his elbows on his knees, Sam with his wrists hanging between his legs and his knees tipped in, listing to one side. He smelled like sweat and blood and Dean resolved to patch him up in the backseat of the Impala on the way from Manchester back to Lawrence.

John was in such a good mood, Dean could probably talk him into stopping somewhere for some real food that Sam could actually keep down, and enjoy. He’d earned it.

Within five minutes, Sam’s head was on Dean’s shoulder, fast asleep.

 

-X-

 

He watched them drive away, his hat tipped down against the pouring rain.

He didn’t like to be stationary; he certainly didn’t like to dog the footsteps of humans, even if they did have a certain interesting asset in their incapable hands. He twirled a set of silver keys around one finger, jangling them together; if only that kid could hear it _now_. Seeing him freeze up had been almost worth getting drenched.

The interesting part was seeing him _alive_. Never trust a Snatcher, no matter how much pay you gave them. Greedy, backstabbing hoarders, couldn’t be trusted to finish a job after the buyer left town. He’d deal with them later.

He pulled the silver slice of a phone from the pocket of his overcoat, pressing the pad of his thumb to the speed-dial button and bringing the phone up to his ear.

There was a click, no voice.

“Absolutely, without-a-doubt, one-hundred-percent our little prodigal.” He waited, the distant snap of an impatient voice filling his ear. “What, did you really think I would let him out of my sight? Of course I’ll keep an eye on his progress, that’s my job.”

He flipped the phone shut and watched the taillights of the Impala bobbing away through the curtain of rain, the glare of red catching across his golden eyes, casting them orange.

“Interesting fighting-style you’ve developed there, Sam.”

 

-X-

 

The weeks following Manchester were a blur of the closest thing to _content_ that Dean could remember.

Autumn segued seamlessly into winter, bringing on colder days, but Mary didn’t seem to notice. In between out-of-town fights and at-home training sessions, she had Sam and Dean stringing barbed wire on top of the fence, insulating against the cold, and scrubbing the entire place floor-to-ceiling, like spring cleaning had come a season early.

John plugged Sam into fights anywhere he could find them; it was never the same formula twice. Sam advanced through anywhere between five and fifteen rounds in a match. Sometimes he’d emerge in a tremor of adrenaline and nerves; sometimes Dean had to help him back to the Impala because he was too drained to walk on his own.

There were always bruises, always wounds. Dean patched them up; Dean steadied Sam when he couldn’t walk. Dean’s jacket was Sam’s pillow on long car-rides after fights, and it was Dean who made sure Sam was prepped for every Prelim.

It was mid-December when John called them outside from a complete renovating of the kitchen; he was sitting behind the wheel of the Impala with the radio on, his fingers tapping against the dial.

Mary leaned in the open window beside him, with Sam and Dean crowding the passenger’s side door. “What is it, John?”

“Listen to this.” John nudged the volume up. “Took some time, but I found the station that covers fights. Stopped listening a few years back, after they started covering the Leagues and ignoring all the Prelim matches. Now they’re talkin’ about _this_.”

Static hissed through the speakers for several seconds, then banked to allow in grainy dialogue. “—can’t say I believe it. I’ve been on the circuit my whole life, and I’ve never seen a monster with these kinds of moves.”

“Would you say it’s been trained?” was the choppy rebuttal.

“Trained? Hell, someone’s putting this thing through a gauntlet. And it’s paying off! You might say that fighting style’s like the, uh, the old boxing matches that went out of style a few decades ago.”

“Huh. You mean to tell me someone’s taking the time to _teach_ a monster how to fight?” There was a stab of riotous laughter.

“Oh, you can laugh all you want, my friend, but this fighter’s undefeated so far. Here’s one to watch out for…no one knows his origins, but the title’s sweeping the nation by storm: _Sam Winchester_!”

Dean slapped a hand on the roof of the Impala. “Hell yeah!”

Sam stared at the radio with moon-sized eyes. “My _God_.”

“That’s the name they wanna hear…Sam Winchester!” Dean folded his arms behind his head with a megawatt grin. “This is crazy.”

John met Mary’s expression, reading her reserve, and said nothing.

The change of seasons brought a plethora of _firsts_ : Sam’s first finished meal with a cleaned plate and a full belly; Sam’s first snowfall—which led to Sam’s first sledding excavation and Sam’s first snowball fight, both of which were met with so much resistance from John that it almost wasn’t worth the effort—and the first time Sam was ever really Dean’s.

It started in Tulsa.

 

-X-

 

John had visited this Pit before.

It was a general rule that Handlers never went to the same Pit twice; based on that rule alone, they were here. John was doing everything he could to keep his wires from brushing Gordon Walker’s, and if that meant doubling back on the unspoken law-book of fighting, John was willing to toe the line. He’d seen vehicles in passing towns that reminded him of Gordon’s old Mustang, and that worried him; he’d left Mary a shotgun before they’d made the drive down to Oklahoma.

It was snowing when they pulled up outside of the massive, belly-up Pit; it was barely anything more than a hole in the ground under a lean-to shelter, one of the worst dives they’d been in. John stepped out first, his feet crunching in half an inch of snow that coated the gravel parking lot; the snow was still falling, fat, fluffy flakes whipped into whirlwinds with every gust of the northern breeze.

Sam was a second behind him, springing from the car like he always did, then stopping, waiting for Dean. Sam always did that, too, always waited; this time with his head tilted back and his tongue sticking out, catching flakes. He might’ve been ten years old, except he was too tall and too scarred, with circular vampire teethmarks standing out like a vicious hickey on the back of his neck. That had happened in Houston, a week ago.

Sam wasn’t a child, and John had to remind himself of that.

Dean climbed from the passenger’s seat with a loud, wet sniff. He’d been battling a cold for the last week and a half, but Mary’s suggestion that he stay home had been met with an immediate and stubborn, vehement _No way_.

So here they were, in Tulsa, four days before Christmas and walking through the snowfall toward the lean-to, its edges ringed with barbed wire.

“Nervous?” Dean elbowed Sam; John caught sight of the motion as he fell in behind them.

“Kinda.” Sam kicked snowdrifts with his boots, still looking up; he stuck his tongue out again.

“Quit it, you’re supposed to look badass.” Dean elbowed him again, harder, and Sam dodged it.

“What are you talking about? I’m awesome.” Sam hunched his shoulders against the cold wind, and Dean barked a laugh.

“ _Right_. You’re over there with your huge feet and your girly long hair and you want me to think you’re some big deal?”

Sam rammed him with his shoulder. “Still stronger than you.”

“Hey, cut it out.” Dean complained, snow tipping into his boots.

“Stop, you two.” John said it more by force of habit than with any real fervor; he was getting used to their constant banter in and outside of the house. Slowly, Dean seemed to be peeling out of John’s hold and Mary’s hold and melding more into Sam’s, in a way that put John on edge; consumed his thoughts; kept him awake when the nightmares didn’t do the job. As much as he’d hoped they could be a family again when Mary and Dean came back into his life, John was starting to see that the household was divided.

He just couldn’t risk getting rid of Sam; Sam was their income, their provision. They depended on him. And he’d never balked, never refused a fight.

John recognized the check-in with a twinge of annoyance.

“John Winchester _again_.”

“Crowley.” John grated. “I don’t have time for small talk.” He flashed his license at the slick-haired demon, earning a look of wide-eyed, mocking approval.

“Well, well. Got ourselves a new champion, have we?” He glanced at Sam. “Would this be _the_ Sam Winchester I’ve heard so much about from all the…flapping tongues around these parts?”

“The one and only.” Dean said with undisguised pride.

“One and only?” A sarcastic voice chimed in. “Now, there’s something this industry’s been lacking for a long time. Imagine being the only one of your breed.”

Sam went visibly taut, the muscles in his neck bulging against his skin. He turned toward the voice, toward the man leaning against the support pillar beside the check-in with his head turned their way.

“You must be special, Sam,” The man went on conversationally; his tone set John on edge. It oozed false intrigue, something poisonous and deadly.

Sam looked down, studying the snow-melt on his boots. Dean ducked his head, trying to catch Sam’s eye. “Hey. Sam?”

“Aw. What’s the matter, Sam? Cat got your tongue?” The man sneered, a gash of his mouth that looked just a little too animalistic for John’s liking.

“You a demon?” He growled.

The man blinked, setting his sights on John; his eyes, John noted, were a pale grayish yellow. “Oh, you could say that, John. And I can already see just how _much_ you’ve decided to hate me. But here’s the _thing_ ,” He slid the last word out with his tongue hissing through his teeth. “My kind are really no worse than your little pet over there. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

Sam’s shoulders hunched down further and he started to rub his arm convulsively.

“Sam!” Dean reached for his shoulder and Sam sidestepped him neatly, always looking down. Dean turned his anger toward the demon, jaw unhinging from some furious declaration before startled recognition made him fall silent, then straighten. “Wait a second, I remember you. You’re the asshat who ran into Sam at the bar in Manchester!”

“This here’s Azazel,” Crowley introduced the man. “You could say he’s…something of an expert on the inner workings of the Pits.”

“You’re being charitable, Crowley.” Azazel held up one finger in a gesture of emphasis. “I’m a business associate of Sam’s former owner and I find myself very, _very_ interested in this fighting style of his.” Azazel stepped away from the post. “Tell me, Sam, where did you learn those _crazy_ moves? Hm? Was it from this dumb little bastard?” He hiked a thumb at Dean. “His washed-out, brains-in-the-ass daddy?”

Sam mumbled something under his breath, his hand going still on his arm. Azazel cupped a dramatic hand around his ear and leaned forward.

“I’m sorry. Didn’t catch that.”

“I said, _shut the hell up about my family_!” Sam snarled, his head swinging up. His eyes spat a kind of fire John had only seen in glimpses while Sam battered his way through the ranks of a match. “Was that loud enough?”

Azazel’s face had taken on a blankness that hailed something far worse. “You know, I think I liked you better when you were making love to the dirt under my feet.”

Dean swung out an arm in front of Sam, both restraint and protection in the gesture. “You heard him. Shut your piehole.”

“How much do they know about you, Sam? Hm?” Azazel prompted.

Sam spread his arms slightly, then dropped them back to his sides. “Everything _I_ know.”

“Uh-huh.” Azazel stroked his tongue thoughtfully along his bottom teeth. “I could tell you a lot more than that.”

There was a surge of cheering from the Pit, and Crowley glanced over his shoulder. “If you’re quite through with your pissing match, I believe there’s a show we have yet to put on for our well-paying citizens.”

“Let’s move, Sam.” Dean shoved him toward the pit with one last livid glare angled Azazel’s way. Azazel gave him a two-fingered sideways salute until John moved between them, blocking the demon’s view of Dean.

“Let me make one thing clear: if you ever touch my son, if you ever come near us again, I will make sure you never take another step as long as you’re wasting air. I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“Oh, John.” Azazel chuckled. “Not if I get to _you_ first.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Call it a…friendly warning. Or, not so friendly.” Azazel clapped John on the arm, his fingers icy to the touch, before he disappeared into the throng that was sliding in through gates in the barbed-wire fence. John couldn’t shake the chill from his bones as he made his way toward the Pit.

He found Dean and Sam off to one side, two lonely anchors in a sea of people. Sam’s head was angled down again and Dean had a hand on Sam’s chest; from this distance, John couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could read Dean’s expression, his passion and sincerity, and the slope of Sam’s body language that said the confrontation with the demon had unbalanced him, taken his full attention.

 _Azazel_. John rolled the name around in his mind. It tasted like acid and blood and fire, and he _hated_ it. Hated knowing there was a demon in the crowd; wondered if any of the monsters fighting here would be Azazel’s; and then wrestled with the disturbing thought, _Wasn’t Sam his?_

Finally, the announcer—amidst a clamor of fanfare and anticipative screams—called Sam’s name. Sam shrugged his coat off and went, leaving Dean with an anxious expression that John hadn’t seen since the Lancaster Qualifier.

John went to join him, gripping Dean’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine. He’s a fighter. He’ll get his head in the game.”

“Yeah.” Dean surprised John by not shaking his hand off.

John found that focus was eluding him; they managed to squeeze their way through the crush of bodies to the edge of the Pit, but even watching Sam fight wasn’t enough to hold John’s attention this time. His eyes consistently found Azazel, stalking the fringes of the mass, not seeming invested in the fight itself but in the drunken craze of the bystanders. Once, catching John’s eye, he winked.

The hairs on John’s arms stood at attention.

He wanted to know what Azazel knew; what Sam’s secret was that the demons still had. And more than that, stronger than that, there was a part of him that wanted to pull Sam from the fight, grab onto Dean and hit the road at top speed. Demons ran the big cities, and the big cities were where Dean was in danger; not to mention, Azazel’s attention had to be, indirectly, Lilith’s attention. The last possible pair of eyes they wanted focusing on their business.

John wondered when he’d become such a raging coward.

And that was when it happened; two, or ten, or even twenty fights later, John wasn’t counting, watching Azazel while his mind chased circles around the demon’s words, about Sam being no better than their kind. There was a fight going on below, Sam against a Gulon, a gluttonous hybrid animal that was propelling itself off the walls, desperate to eat Sam whole.

Beside John, Dean seemed to have forgotten everything; forgotten Azazel, forgotten the crowd. He was gripping the braided rope that lined the Pit, calling out interspersions of advice as Sam jabbed a kick at the Gulon that rolled its emaciated body across the packed, frozen dirt.

“Stay away from its mouth, stay clear, if it gets a bite on you, you’re down!” Dean hollered, feinting his head and shoulders sideways as Sam did the same, dodging another bite. Sam twisted on one bare, raw-from-cold heel and pummeled the Gulon straight in the throat, dropping it to the floor. “Atta boy, Sammy!”

The words turned to ice as they slid through John’s ears. He swung his eyes to Dean, ignoring the demon, ignoring the fight below them.

Sammy.

_Sammy._

_My Sam_.

There was an undeniable element of possessiveness to that word. Something that stepped beyond _Handler_ and _monster_. It made Sam real, made him _human_.

There was an uproar of delight as Sam beat the Gulon down again and John’s focus was blunted off of Dean, not by the well-aimed blow from Sam, but by the high-pitched jangle of windchimes.

That was what he thought it was, at first; the hollow peal of tubes clinking against each other. It was audible above the crowd, but not enough to take their attention.

And then Sam heard it.

With his back against the wall, he went completely still, wide eyes staring at nothing; John could see strained muscles ticking under Sam’s sweaty, dirt-smudged skin. The heat of bodies in close quarters dampened his hair and oiled his scars and Sam was utterly unmoving, ramrod straight, his chest rising and falling faster with every second.

“Sam, what’re you _doing_?” Dean bellowed. “Don’t just stand there!”

John’s gaze swept the opposite edge of the Pit, finding Azazel; a vindictive smirk twisted his pale lips, and he swung a pair of car keys lazily beside his head.

“Call it.” John murmured to Dean.

“What?” Eyes fixed on the Pit, Dean didn’t seem to understand.

“ _Call the match_!” John shoved his way between clustering bodies, murmurs of surprise and uncertainty bearing up on his back as he tried to blunder his way through to where Azazel was. By the time he reached the far side of the Pit, the demon had vanished.

John spun half-circles, his eyes searching the crowd with no sign of Azazel, as though he’d vanished into thin air. John heard the announcer calling the match a wrap, calling victory to the Handler who owned the Gulon.

John smacked his palm against the nearest support post and cussed under his breath, his teeth gritted savagely.

They pulled the two monsters from the pit, Sam and the starving Gulon. And that _thing_ had won over Sam, the undefeated champion. Humiliation made John’s skin burn; he wove his way to the edge of the crowd and found Sam bursting through the ranks, yanking on his jacket with Dean a step behind him.

“Sam, it’s no big deal—Sam!”

“Just stay away from me, Dean!”

“Dammit, Sam, I’m talking to you…look at me!” Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and whirled him around and John stopped, too, watching them. “There are gonna be other fights, man. We knew you weren’t gonna punch through fifty straight. You win some, you lose some.”

“Not like this.” Sam’s jaw was clenched, his mouth tipping down, and he looked anywhere but at Dean. “Not with _him_ around.”

“What, the demon? He’s a son of a bitch, Sam, who cares what he thinks?”

Sam’s voice was a rasp. “ _I_ care.”

Dean’s chest rumbled, audible from a distance, and he snagged the side of Sam’s neck. “Look at me! I don’t care what they did to you. All right? I don’t care what he says you are. I don’t give a damn if he crushed your face into the dirt every day of your life! This is different. Right? _I’m_ different.”

The look that passed between them was something that John didn’t have words for. Something private and unspoken and understanding.

Dean dropped his hand. “You hurt?”

“Just a couple bruises. I’ll be fine.”

John cleared his throat, drawing their attention. “This fight was a waste of time. Let’s head for home.”

Before they left, John returned to the check-in and handed over the hundred dollars he’d lost for betting on Sam. It wasn’t even a breath in the direction of the debt he was under, but it was a start.

“Sorry, mate.” Crowley said.

John ignored him.

The sun was already setting behind low-banking clouds, bringing on an early twilight as they pulled out of Tulsa and hit the road heading north. Sam sat up rigid in the backseat, staring out the window, but after half an hour he’d slipped down against the door.

“That was a friggin’ bust.” Dean sighed, slouching in his seat. “What the hell d’you think that yellow-eyed bastard was up to?”

“Nothing good.” John frowned through the windshield, the wiper blades swishing to clear the heavy snow as fast as it fell. “He seemed to know an awful lot about Sam. And Sam clearly knew him.”

“Sam was flipping out. I’ve never seen him freeze up during a fight like that.” Dean’s voice was brittle with rage.

“Something about those keys set him off.” John said. “It might’ve been a signal, something Lilith taught him when he was in her charge. Your mother might have a better guess. We’ll run it by her at home.”

“D’n?” Sam mumbled groggily from the backseat, and Dean twisted toward him.

“Yeah, pal?”

“Can I…?”

Dean seemed to know without being told. He shucked his jacket off and tossed it into the backseat, letting Sam burrow his head into it. Within seconds, Sam’s breathing sounds filled the car again.

“He’s getting faster out there, though.” Dean said. “I mean, did you see him? He’s like a battering ram, most of the monsters can’t get close.”

“Close enough. He’s still coming away with scars from every fight.”

“Yeah, but wait until we start with the Jujutsu.” Dean slung his arm across the seat back. “Gotta say, feels good to be training again. Y’know, like we used to. Sam learns on a curve, too, it’s kinda crazy. Watching the switches flip in his brain.”

“Dean.” John began, cautiously. “That might not be a good sign.”

Dean laughed quietly. “How’s that a _bad_ sign, dad? Means we can win more fights, keep busting through these Prelims.”

“You heard that demon.” John focused on the slick road ahead. “The things he said about Sam? They know what he is, Dean. And something tells me Sam isn’t as innocent as he’s played. We’ve let it slide so far, let him do his own thing. But I think it’s time we started looking for some serious answers.”

Dean was silent for a while, and the fact that he seemed to be mulling over his own thoughts rather than responding with a volatile outburst put John on edge. “Look. I know there’s something going on with Sam that’s nine different kinds of crazy. But he’s kicking ass out there. Can we just let him fight and not worry about what he is?”

“There’s a reason Faceless monsters never come through the Pits, Dean.” John let the implication hang on the air. “The demons know his origins. The thing we’ve been hunting for _months_. And they’re right…he _is_ dangerous. Every monster is.”

“You’ve been sitting quiet on this since Lancaster. Why are you bringing it up again?” Dean challenged, his eyes glinting like rebel emeralds in the reflection of the headlights off the snow.

“Because I don’t like the way you’re treating that monster like he’s family. He is _not_ family, Dean. He’s not _human_. There’s a line that we can’t cross. I’ve gone easy on you, I’ve let it slide. But that demon being on the scene changes _everything_. We either find out what Sam is, or we cut him loose and cut our losses.”

“Are we seriously back to this? Sam’s not some rabid bloodthirsty freak, all right? He can handle himself. Hell, I’m starting to think he’s just a kickass human who can take care of himself in a fight.”

“That alone is enough to get our license revoked. You know the rules, Dean. Humans aren’t allowed in Pit fights.”

“So we break the rules! Since when have _Winchesters_ ever toed the line on anything? We’re like the poster family for anarchy.” Dean was whisper-yelling, and in the backseat Sam slept on.

“I know about New York. I know they want to send you to a Death Camp. And I won’t let my _son_ be dragged in there because of a monster. Your life over Sam’s, and I’ll choose you, every single time.”

“You’re a self-righteous bastard, you know that? You have the guts to say I matter to you? Where _were_ you for twelve years while I was in Ne—?”

            There was a squealing of tires and a pulse-stopping _grunch_ of metal on metal. The Impala was struck broadside by nothing, by the dim sleek outline of something massively bulky rising out of the gloom. Dean and Sam’s side of the car folded around the snout of another vehicle, and instinct had John’s reaching over, grabbing Dean’s shoulder and pulling him over almost into John’s lap, away from the blow.

The Impala fishtailed across the narrow two-lane highway, hit the verge and launched into the air.

Spinning snowflakes, the roar of another engine, weightlessness, glass, and falling. A flash of yellow in the darkness for a split-second when John blinked.

The Impala slammed down in a tornado of snow, and the world went black.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Ten: Vacation

 

            Swimming through warbling dark.

            When Sam breathed, it rushed cold into his lungs. His ears were ringing, sound seeming fluted and muffled around him. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done—harder than a fight, harder than training—to peel his gummy eyelids open and figure out exactly what was happening.

            He was lying, he realized, in the backseat of the Impala; but the backseat was halfway to the outside, the door conforming around his head. He could feel that they weren’t moving, that there was an inordinate amount of snow and cold seeping through the cracks of his cocoon. His sluggish thoughts finally pieced together that there had been some kind of accident, and the Impala had been the unfortunate victim.

Sam wriggled his fingers and toes, testing for breaks or injuries, and finding none that stood out any more than the scrapes of a fight. Not until he tried to sit up; his head whirled like water spinning down a bathtub drain. He pressed an experimental hand to his scalp and felt blood, hot and sticky, melding between his fingers.

“Ow,” He said, surprised, because what he hadn’t noticed before was how badly he actually hurt, from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Not a pronounced pain, but a radiating one, like he’d been held down and waled on by an Akki until he was black and blue.

The pain brought a sharpness and clarity that course-corrected his world. “Guys?”

There was a dark shape huddled against the driver’s door with the size and bulk of John, but from this angle Sam couldn’t see any signs of life. Blinking against the cold and the pain that doubled his vision, Sam saw a galaxy of bloodspatters on the windshield, sliding in with the spider-web veins of broken glass.

Groaning, Sam planted his foot hard against the unbent backseat door on John’s side of the car; it had taken less damage, making it more pliable. A few solid hits from his boots and Sam popped it open, slithering out and landing in a snow drift.

The coldness was a welcome relief to the wet heat on is scalp, but Sam couldn’t take the time to enjoy it. There was a thought growing rock-hard in his gut, screaming loud, one word, over and over again: _Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean._

“Dean!” Sam hauled himself up with one hand braced against the car, his feet unsteady beneath him. He felt his way around the front of the Impala, the single unbroken headlight casting a bright sluice into an otherwise dark night. Peering through the windshield, Sam couldn’t see any more than the arch of John’s shoulder against the seat.

He pounded his fist against the passenger window. “Dean!”

There was no movement from inside; Sam grabbed the door handle and yanked it, hard, but it didn’t budge. He went back to the window, smacking it with the flat of his hand. “Dean, come on! _Answer me_!”

Something finally stirred; a hand pressed to his on the far side of the window, leaving a stain of blood, and then a muffled voice from inside: “ _Sam…_?”

Sam leaned his forehead against the glass for a heartbeat, the relief so powerful it almost knocked him to his knees. “Dean, the door’s stuck. I can’t open it.”

“Locked, genius.” There was a click under his hands and Sam wrenched the door open. He reached into the compressed front seat, his hand finding Dean’s shoulder, his side. Sam looped an arm around Dean’s back and pulled him out, slowly but gently, lowering him into the snow.

Blood ran down a trench-wound on Dean’s forehead and across the bridge of his nose. He blinked shallowly. “You okay?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Sam dismissed.

“Dad…”

            “I’ll get him. I’ll get him, Dean.” Sam was back on his feet, moving around the car to John’s window. It was broken, the glass peppering the snow, and John’s head teetered against the strap of his seatbelt, eyes closed. Sam took to one knee in the snow, feeling for a pulse in John’s neck, relieved to find one.        

            At Sam’s touch, John started to revive; coughing slightly, his head rolling up off the windowsill.

            “Hey. Hey, I’m gonna get you out, I’ll get you out. Just give me a second.” Sam leaned through the window, the shards of glass still in the frame catching at his stomach as he popped John’s seatbelt and pulled away. “Can you move?”

            “S’my arm.” John grated; he was pinning the injured limb across his lap. Sam could see an ugly, jutting spear of bone through the skin; for a second his whole world tipped with nausea.

            “Okay. Try not to move too fast.” Sam unlocked the door and opened it, bracing John up with his shoulder. He stripped off his own jacket and wrapped it under John’s arm and up around the back of his neck, knotting it above John’s shoulders.

            “Where’s Dean?” John asked; and it struck Sam that, in spite of the near-constant pressure between John and Dean, they both still cared enough to be concerned.

            “He’s fine.” Sam squinted against the humming pain in his own head. “Here, let’s get you out, come on.”

            It was slow work to half-slide, half-lift John from the car, but with his good arm over Sam’s shoulders, they managed it. Sam led him through the high-beam and sat him against the front of the car, then went back for Dean.

            That was where the problem presented itself; Dean had slumped onto one elbow, holding his side, the snow beneath him dripping red.

            “Glass,” Dean grunted when Sam approached him.

            _Liver shot_ , was Sam’s initial panic. He crouched behind Dean, rolling him over so that Dean’s back rested on Sam’s knees and there was a clear view of his side. Thankfully, inspection proved it wasn’t a fatal injury, though a few inches to the side and Sam’s first guess would’ve been a nightmarish reality. What was still a nightmare was the glass shard protruding four inches from Dean’s skin, and who knew how many more were buried inside of him?

            “Dean?” Sam said. “I have to pull this out.”

            Dean grunted. “Just do it, Sammy.”

            The nickname brought an electric jolt to Sam’s mind that stabilized him and steadied his grip. He braced one hand on Dean’s abdomen, curled his palm against the jagged edge of the glass, _inhale_ , and drew it out, _exhale_.

            No more than two inches had wedged themselves into Dean’s gut, but it was enough. Dean built up a growl through the removal that escaped as a short beat, a cry of pain when the tip of the glass passed through. And then Sam had his own shirt off and was pressing it to the sick flap of bloodshed while Dean shuddered on his knees.

            “Y-y-you’re gonna freeze,” Dean grated.

            “I’m fine.” Sam replied tautly. “What the hell happened? What hit us?”

            “My guess is Azazel.” John answered from behind them. He sounded much more lucid, like the cold had woken him up.

            Sam felt guilt and fear and anger rolled into one thought: _I did this to them_.

            Dean’s hand hit Sam’s chest. “Go get my jacket.”

            “No. I’m not leaving you.”

            “Sam. You’re no good to us if you freeze.” Dean reasoned. “Just go get the damn jacket, you girl.”

            Somehow a smile found its way onto his face. “Don’t go anywhere.”

            “Funny.”

            It _was_ warmer with Dean’s black jacket buttoned over his bare skin, even if the buttons themselves were icy. Sam helped Dean into the glow of the headlight beside John, then crouched in front of them. “What if he finds us?”

            “There’s a gun under the front seat. It’s a special gun. You grab it, and if anything moves out there, you shoot it.” John replied.

            Sam went to retrieve it, hearing Dean mumble, “ _Special gun_?”

            When he returned, John had his phone out. He passed it to Sam as well. “Call Mary. We’re about three hours from Lawrence, but she’s the only help we’ve got.”

            “Closer than Bobby’s.” Dean leaned his head back against the scuffed front bumper of the Impala. “Why’d he _ram_ us? I don’t get it. He coulda dropped us back at the fight.”

            “No, that’s not like him. That’s not his style.” Sam listened to the phone ringing in a monotone purr. “It would be too public.”

            He realized that, maybe, he was saying too much. But his head felt funny and it was hard to keep track of what was _actually_ too much.

            The phone clicked to life on the far end. “Hello?”

            “Mary,” Sam’s voice broke slightly with the cold. “It’s Sam.”

            “Sam?” He heard the instant alertness in her voice. “Why do you have John’s phone? Did he ask you to call me?”

            “We were…sort of in an accident.” Sam explained. “The car’s totaled.”

            “Where are you?”

            “Just north of Coffeyville.” John intoned.

            Sam relayed that.

            “Stay right where you are. I’ll be there in two hours.”

            Sam dropped the phone into John’s good hand and scooted around to sit next to Dean with the gun in his lap.

            “Hey, what’s with the gun, huh? What makes it so special?” Dean asked.

            “It’s the only weapon that can kill any monster. Any breed, anytime. As long as you have the bullets. Powder’s infused with a little bit of everything…salt, iron, silver, bronze. Every weakness of every monster that was ever written, recorded, heard about.” John stretched his legs out into the snow.

            “How’d you find it?”

            “Man doesn’t stop being a Hunter overnight, Dean. Got hired for a case with a man named Daniel Elkins as my partner. Elkins died on the run; shot cold by Handlers who didn’t like us smoking out the vampire nest they had their sights on. Last thing Elkins ever did was entrust that gun to me.” John sighed. “That Colt and the Impala are the only things I got that can buy me into fights. All I’ve got that’s worth trading. And I owe them to about two dozen different Handlers.”

            “Between that and Azazel,” Dean said. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

            Sam rolled the gun in his hands and wondered if it could kill him, too; if he even wanted to know what he really was. Or if it was enough to know that humans had always called him _Faceless_ , and the demons had always called him _Special_.

            They’d never told him how; but sometimes Sam felt like he knew where an opponent would be before they were actually there. Like half the time his life was living in minute-by-minute déjà-vu.

            Remembering that always brought on the taste of battery-acid and sewer rot between his teeth, so potent and so swift that Sam repressed it immediately, and he wondered instead how much colder they could all get before they turned to three icy gargoyles, vigilant beside the ruin of their car.

            The headlight threw their shadows ahead of them into the night, a beacon to bring Mary in as the snow kept falling around them.

 

-X-

 

            There were vague splotches from the rest of that night.

            Sam opened his eyes to the sight of Mary tumbling to her knees beside John, her hair hanging in a bright golden curtain over one shoulder. Sam helped Dean into the pickup truck, then wedged John in beside him, and that was when he realized there wasn’t room for him up front.

            Dean struggled out of his hoodie and handed it to Sam, his eyes overbright with pain. “You’re not going out there like that.”

            Two layers wasn’t much against the cold, but curled against the back of the cab, Sam saw stars inside and outside of his eyes, and it was a strange, cold kind of beautiful.

            He didn’t know what was going to happen to the Impala.

            When a warm touch woke him, for a second Sam thought it was Dean; he rumbled a protest, curling tighter into the low center of heat inside his scrunched body. It wasn’t until willowy fingers dipped under his jaw and tipped his head back that Sam realized Mary was kneeling beside him, brushing the snow from his hair.

            “Hi, sweetheart.” There was a lip of dawn light over her shoulder that Sam could see through narrowed eyes. “How’s that head?”

            “It’s still attached.” Sam let his eyes slide shut. “Where’re Dean and dad?”

            He realized the slip of the tongue a second too late, but Mary didn’t seem concerned by it. “I got them inside.” She smoothed the hair off his forehead. “I’m stronger than you boys give me credit for.”

            “We owe you.” Sam let his chin rest heavy in her hand. He was too tired and cold to be bothered with _remembering_ , his sluggish brain unwilling to make the connection between Mary and Lilith. Right now her touch was the only real warmth he had.

            “Let’s get you inside and into some dry clothes.”

            And there was that, afterwards, a vague memory of half-leaning against Mary, staggering across the lawn and into the house. The blast of warmth from the fireplace woke him up, got his teeth chattering, and he noticed John propped up against the pillows on the couch, cradling his broken arm across his chest.

            “Can you make it upstairs on your own?” Mary asked, gently.

            “I think I’ll be okay, yeah.” Sam let his arm drop from around her shoulders.

            “I’ll be in to check on you and Dean in a minute.” Mary rubbed a gentle hand between his shoulder blades.

            The guest room felt vast and quiet as Sam edged his way inside; a throbbing headache was manifesting over his right ear, where he’d been crunched against the door, and his spinal column felt compressed and achy. He slid down onto the floor, dragging the blanket off the bed and spreading it across his knees for warmth.

            He could almost see his breath.

            There was a sharp sound like crackling cellophane that slid under the door; Sam heard a brief, blunt bark of pain, and he could imagine Mary setting the bone in John’s arm, uneven edges grating together.

            Nothing fitting; everything falling apart.

            _I brought this on them_.

            There was blood on the snow, blood on his hands that Sam couldn’t forget. John’s blood, Dean’s blood; he’d lost a fight, he’d brought a demon in close, close enough to _hurt_ them. They were the only family he’d ever had, and now they were straight in the crosshairs, being made an example of. John’s car, a bent and mangled shell; and blood.

            Logic told Sam to get up and leave; to _run_. Away from the Winchesters, away from Azazel. Back into himself, to nowhere, to _anywhere_ that was better than here. If the demons wanted him back, they’d move heaven and earth to claim him. Sam knew it. And that put everyone else in danger, because no matter what he could never go _back_ , he could never lie down quietly and be carried off to slaughter.

            Bunching his hand in the folds of the blanket, Sam shuffled upright and moved toward the door.

            It opened before his hand grazed the knob; hollow-cheeked and angry-eyed, Dean stood blocking his way, blood mottling the front of his t-shirt. “You’d better not be thinking about taking off.”

            “Dean…I gotta go.” Sam said. “Those demons could come after me. I have to find out… _what_ I am. And I can’t let all of you get hurt for me.”

            “No one’s asking you.” Dean leaned one hand against the doorpost, barring Sam’s escape. “I know the stakes just went up. And I know it scares the _hell_ outta you. But we’re gonna go after this thing _together_ , you understand me?”

            “This isn’t a game, Dean.”

            “You’re damn right it’s not.”

            “You saw what those demons did. They almost _killed_ you and John. And for what?” Dean slanted his gaze at the floor, and Sam pushed his momentary advantage. “I’m the one they’re after. I’m the only thing they care about!”

            “Aw, Sam, you’re kidding yourself.” Dean snapped. “They don’t _care_ about you, they just can’t stand seeing you out there, climbin’ the ranks. And you know why?”

            Sam breathed out through his nostrils. “Why?”

            “Because _they_ screwed up.” Dean made a brief, cutting motion with his hand. “ _They_ dumped your ass, and now you’re on your way to the top. If I was them, I’d be wetting myself, too. You could take ’em all on, man. Huh?” Dean prompted him. “C’mon, Sam.”

            A reluctant smile shot its way across Sam’s face. “So, what? We take on a bunch of demons? Just like that?”

            “No, we keep our heads down, we keep training. We show ’em what you’re made of, and we pound their faces into it. They’re not gettin’ you back, Sam. I’m not gonna let that happen.”

            Sam’s smile softened, his brow scrunching. “I know.”

            Dean sniffed, glancing over his shoulder toward the stairs. “You’re being straight with me, right? I mean, you really don’t know what you are.”

            Sam shrugged. “I’ve got nothing, Dean. I mean, I can remember…everything. Being trained in this since I was a kid. But as far as I know, I never…manifested any supernatural traits or anything. I guess the demons got tired of waiting, that’s why they dumped me and took off.”

            “Yeah, well, their loss.” Dean clenched his teeth, pressing a fist to his side.

            Sam swallowed shortly. “You good?”

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”  Footsteps thudded up the stairs. “Like I said, you better not take off. I’ll hunt you down and beat the fear of God into you.”

            “Got it.”

            And against his better judgment, Sam stayed.

 

-X-

 

            Christmas came and went, the first Sam had ever seen; quiet, not a white Christmas like Dean talked about, but a gray-green one. The only gift any of them received was in the form of a call from Bobby Singer, with an offer to tow the Impala from the side of the road free of charge.

            John was sunk deep in a brooding, thoughtful silence, his heavily-swaddled arm nestled in a nylon sling. With Dean still on the mend and Mary outright banning them both from training, the boys hit the books, tearing through anything they could find that might hint at Sam being something other than average. But the books yielded no answers, folding secrets into their feathery pages.

            Sam remained Faceless.

            Stationed, for the most part, on the couch, John had the distinct sense that Dean was avoiding him. Their argument before the crash seemed to have solidified the unbreachable gap between them, a void of angry feelings and hurt feelings and things neither of them _wanted_ to feel, or else they didn’t know what to call these things they _were_ feeling, so they dodged them altogether.

            Dean watched Sam like a hawk, watched him _constantly_. If Dean’s gaze had a center of gravity, it was Sam. Dean waited until Sam went to bed before he’d acquiesce to his own heavy eyes, and go upstairs; Dean didn’t eat until he was sure Sam wasn’t starving himself. In leaps and bounds, John watched his son’s life meld itself more and more to Sam.

            “He’s afraid Sam is going to leave.” Mary explained, though John didn’t ask, one day while she sat on the couch beside him, her knees pulled under her body. A Bible was open on her knees; John had never put much stock in religion above and beyond prayers, but Mary seemed to believe with openness and pride.

            Part of John wished that Sam _would_ go, and save them all the trouble.

            But there was another part—a cynical, begrudging part—that was not naive to the fact that Sam had pulled him from the car, had pulled Dean out as well, before he’d taken the time to tend to his own bleeding skull. Sam’s compassionate nature pulled against what the demon had said, splitting John in tatters down the middle.

            “What am I supposed to do?” John prayed toward the ceiling after the house went quiet one night.

            The answer, if it counted as an answer, came in the form of a phone call the following morning, the tinny vibrations waking John from fitful slumber. He floundered up from under the blanket and went for the phone with his left hand, thumbing it open and bringing it to his ear. “This is John.”

            “Bobby Singer here.”

            John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me you found the car, Bobby.”

            “I sure did. If you wanna call this inside-out scrapheap a car. You boys go broadside with a tank?”

            “Might’ve been. It was too dark to see it.”   

            Bobby grunted. “Dunno how much I can do for her, John. This car’s beat to hell. Might not be worth the time it’ll take to fix it up.”

            John sat there, quiet, an idea throwing shadows in the recesses of his thoughts. “Think you’d be able to work faster with an extra pair of hands?”

            “Last I heard, your hands weren’t exactly in working order, John.”

            “I’m not volunteering myself for the job.” John propped his elbow on the back of the couch. “I’m volunteering Dean.”

            There was a prolonged, pregnant pause, with only the swish of tires and the hum of an engine through the miles of static to prove that Bobby hadn’t hung up on him. “This wouldn’t be about Sam, would it?”

            “What makes you say that?”

            “Well, John, even a man from backass of nowhere can get his hands on a radio. I’ve been hearin’ reports from every corner of the ’States. Sam this, Sam that, like he’s some kinda newfangled contraption that everybody’s gotta have a word about.”

            “That’s an accurate description.”

            “Not sure I see how Dean plays into this.”

            John glanced toward the stairs. “He’s getting attached. Too attached. He’s blurring the lines between humans and monsters, Bobby.”

            “ _Your_ Dean? That kid was raised a Hunter’s prodigy.”

            “I know. I wish that was enough. But he’s got these blinders on when it comes to Sam; it’s like he can’t see straight.”

            “You sure that’s such a bad thing?”

            John had to temper down an immediate flush of anger. “Come again?”

            “I’m just sayin’, John. Dean keeps his secrets under his secrets under his mattress at night. One look at that boy and you can see there’s a lot more to ’im than he’s lettin’ on. Whether it tickles your tootsies or not, Sam brings that out of ’im. Makes him face up to himself.”

            “How would you know?”

            “’Cause I saw the difference between Dean the day he came home and the day I gave Sam a once-over. Whatever that kid is, Dean’s got him pegged for a friend, a confidant, sparring partner; hell, they’re probably keepin’ each other sane out there.”

            “What’s your point?”

            “My point is that Sam might be good for him.”

            “There are _still_ more humans than monsters in this world, and you think Dean latching on to a Faceless might be _good_ for him?” John replied scathingly. “I thought you of all people would understand. We live this life because we have no other choice, but we don’t start treating these things like they’re anything other than animals.”

            “And you want me to do _what_ , exactly? Tell him he’s got his fool head unscrewed and he needs to get all his ducks in a row? I ain’t his father, John.”

            “That’s exactly why he might listen to _you_.” John insisted. “I’m running out of options, here, Bobby. A couple weeks away from Sam, working on the car at your place, might put things back in perspective for him.”

            “Or he’ll raise hell. That boy hasn’t been the type to roll over and take orders, as long as I’ve known him.”

            “I’ll worry about getting him to agree. Just swing by on your way back to the Sioux Falls.”

            “Should be there in an hour, tops.”

            “He’ll be ready.” John tossed the phone onto the table and leaned his head back against the armrest. “Dean?”

            There was a minute of silence before a door creaked on its hinges upstairs. Dean swaggered to the bottom step and leaned his crossed arms on the banister. “Yeah?”

            “We need to have a talk.”

            “Okay? So, talk.”

            There was enough attitude in those words alone to set John on edge. He wrestled to control his own effervescent irritation. “Bobby just called. He’s got the Impala.”

            Dean’s posture loosened, his shoulders slumping down. “Thank God. Well, hey, good luck for once. Maybe things are gonna start lookin’ up.”

            “Maybe.” John agreed distractedly. “That’s not why I called you down here.”

            “Okay, then, what? You need me to grab you somethin’?”

            “I’m not an invalid.” John pointed out. “Bobby said he could use some help restoring the Impala. It’s a big job; a two-man job, at least. I told him you wouldn’t mind helping him out for a few weeks.”

            Dean’s face crinkled with surprised. “Well, hey, y’know, I love workin’ with Bobby. But next week, there’s that big fight out in Oakland. I gotta be there, I gotta watch Sam’s back.”

            “I can take care of the fight, Dean. You’re not even a verified Handler. You head out with Bobby, and Sam and I will tackle Oakland.”

            “Dad, you saw how he reacted to the demon. If that thing shows up again—”

            “We can handle it without you.”

            Dean’s eyes half-hooded with defiance, his tongue tracing his lower lip as a slow, arrogant smile tugged across his features. “Is this about what happened before the accident? Huh? How you think I’m getting too attached to Sam?”

            John flicked his eyes sideways. “Dean, I never said—”

            “You don’t _have_ to say it, dad, I can see it on your face!” Dean snapped. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? You can’t just pawn me off on Bobby because I’m doing something that _pisses you off_!”

            “This isn’t a debate, Dean. It’s an ultimatum.” John said bluntly, refusing to rise the bait of a challenge. “Either you go with Bobby, or we take Sam to a Snatcher nest and we take our chances on another monster.”

            “You’re kidding me.”

            “You look at me, and tell me if you think this is a joke.”

            They stared at one another, seconds overlapping into minutes, until Dean cupped a hand over his mouth, rubbing at his unshaven jaw with that same dry, humorless smile on his face. “This is insane. And you’re a bastard.”

            “Don’t you talk to me like that!” But Dean was already bounding back up the stairs. “Dean!”

            John slapped his flat palm on the back of the couch. “Son of a bitch.”

 

-X-

           

Dean hurled clothed haphazardly into his duffle bag, his vision swimming red. Fury seethed in his veins; that John would treat him like a kid, try to shuttle him to someone else when Dean didn’t fall in line like a perfect soldier. His insides were boiling down into froth and his teeth gritted together so hard he thought he might fracture them.

He slammed the closet shut and turned, and Sam was standing in the doorway, eyebrows arched.

“I thought _I_ was the flight risk around here,” He said wryly.

“Shut up.” Dean dropped his guitar case on the bed, and Sam leaned away from the door, arms crossed, forehead creasing with a frown.

“Dean? Hey, man, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Dad’s shipping me off to boarding school.” Dean yanked the few pairs of socks he had out of his dresser and tossed them over his shoulder into the duffle.

“ _What_?” Sam’s voice punched through an octave in shock. “You’re _kidding_.”

“I wish I was.” Dean slammed the drawer shut and braced his hands on the edges of the dresser, tucking his head down. “He’s sending me to Bobby’s.”

The too-small bed creaked as Sam dropped onto it. “For how _long_?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s trying to prove a point.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sam crane his head forward in an impatient gesture. “ _And…_?”

“He thinks I care too much.” Dean walked to the bed, zipping the duffle shut. “About you.”

Sam’s expression contorted with confusion. “Why? Because I’m a _monster_?”

“I never said that!” Dean protested. “We don’t know _what_ you are. He’s just being a jackass.”

“And you’re going along with it?”

Dean scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “It’s that or he turns you over to the Snatchers again.”

A brief, bright flicker of panic filtered into Sam’s eyes. “What?”

“He’s just treading water here, Sam. Honestly? He doesn’t know what the hell he’s gonna do with you. But this, whatever we have between us? Love, family…it scares the crap out of him.”

Sam nodded slowly, glancing down at his hands. “At least you’ll be with Bobby. He seems all right.”

Dean slung his duffle over his shoulder. “Uh-huh. Look, could you do me a favor? Keep an eye on my mom for me. And try not to get your ass kicked in Oakland.”

Sam sat up straighter. “You’re not coming to Oakland?”

“Nah.” Dean feigned nonchalance. “I’ll be on my walkabout.”

“Right, right.” Sam nodded, imitating Dean’s offhanded approach and clearing his throat, getting to his feet. He extended his hand formally. “So, uh, I guess I’ll see you in a couple weeks?”

“Dude, chill. I’m not leaving yet.” Dean said, but he shook Sam’s hand anyway.

Sam half-smiled, glancing toward the door when Mary stuck her head inside.

“What are you boys up to?”

“Plotting the destruction of the human race.” Dean said with perfect composure, dropping his hand.

“A word of advice: go for the small and weak first.” Mary crooked a finger at Sam. “Sam, would you excuse us for a minute?”

“Sure.” Sam twitched a strained smile at Dean over his shoulder on his way out.

Dean sighed the second the door shut behind Sam. “Is this a lecture?”

Mary crossed the room and smoothed down the collar of his flannel shirt. “This is me telling you that I think some time away from home will do you good.”

“Not you, too.” Dean groaned.

“Your father may be stubborn and boneheaded, Dean, but he’s right about one thing: you’re too involved in this already, and it’s only been a few months.” She caught Dean’s skeptical, cock-eyed glance, and stepped back, folding her arms. “How much time have you and Sam spent apart since you brought him home?”

Dean’s mouth pursed and rounded into an _O_ , eyes rolling up and right as he tried to backtrack through the days and weeks, all the way to the Snatcher’s nest. “Okay, it’s been a while. _So_?”

“So, you’ve been training almost nonstop since then. You don’t play your guitar as often, you don’t take time for yourself.” She brushed her fingers through his spiky hair and Dean had to resist the urge to move into her touch, cat-like, like he’d always done when he was younger. “Try to see this as a vacation. From the fights, from Sam, from your father.”

“But not from you, right?” Dean teased halfheartedly.

Mary cradled his cheeks in the palms of her hands. “You spend enough time away from me as it is.” She kissed his forehead and wrapped her arms around him; Dean draped his chin over her shoulder, letting his eyes slide shut.

“God, I miss you sometimes.” He chuckled shallowly, shifting his chin against her spine.

“I miss you too.” Mary’s fingertips traced stars inside circles on Dean’s back, sending the good, warm kind of shivers up into his shoulders. “But I hear every parent goes through that when their handsome, charming, wayward son starts to grow into himself after twenty-four years.”

“Almost twenty-five.” Dean reminded her.

“Hmm, we’ll have to go out to that mini-mart and find some pie on your birthday. Just like old times.”

            Dean wanted to point out that it wouldn’t be like old times if Jo and Bill and Ellen weren’t there, but he swallowed that back. “Don’t let dad and Sam kill each other while I’m gone, all right?”

            “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll keep those two busy.”

            Dean’s thoughts wandered toward the attic that still needed cleaning, the upstairs bathroom that was in total disrepair after John had tried to corner Sam there to brand him, and the shed that needed to be rooted out and scrubbed from floor to ceiling.

            In light of that, a few weeks at Bobby’s sounded like an escape.

            The only thing that kept rubbing away at him was _Oakland_ , and what might be waiting for Sam out there. What might happen if Dean wasn’t there to call a fight, if things got dicey.

            “Hey, mom?”

            “Mm-hmm?”

            “Did dad ever tell you what happened with Sam, back in Tulsa?”

            Mary pulled back, frowning. “He didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary, aside from the accident. Why?”

            “There was this—” _Demon_ , “This guy was being an ass, playing with his keys or something, and Sam just locked up. I mean, we’re talkin’ full-on Freezer mode. Dad thought it was some kinda—”

            “Trigger?” Mary finished, and Dean shrugged. “It sounds like a trigger. A trigger is a sound or a sight that a person can be trained to associate with something else. Example, you might feel a pinch on your arm, but because you always pinch yourself before you eat, say, a can of olives, the feeling of the pinch could stimulate a craving for olives that you wouldn’t have had otherwise.”

            “So, keys are Sam’s trigger? How’s that work?”

            “My guess is, given his history and who his Handlers were, that sort of high-pitched rattling sound would’ve preceded some kind of pain. It might’ve been cultivated by something other than keys, too…maybe a metal pole hitting his cage bars. It’s hard to tell what the original culprit was, but that sort of full-body reaction is visceral, Dean. It’s a direct affect on Sam’s brain.”

            “He hears it and thinks he’s about to get the crap beat out of him.”

            “Worse than that. If the memory of the incident itself is vivid enough, he might even have flashbacks.”

            That was the moment that Dean decided it would _definitely_ be a good idea to go with John’s option and take a few days off.

            Because the thought of anyone inspiring that kind of instinctual panic in Sam made Dean want to burn the whole fighting industry to the ground.

 

                                           

 


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Eleven: Black and White

 

            Dean rapidly developed an intimate relationship with the Impala.

            It would have been difficult not to, since he spent the majority of his days inside of her; pushing crushed steel, rebuilding framework, chiseling out dents. All under Bobby’s watchful eye and tutelage, in the cold windbreak of his metal workshed, a squatter imitation of the barn where Dean and Sam often trained; Bobby’s personal policy was an almost archaic rule of work ending at sundown and resuming at sunrise. Dean ascribed to it even though he wasn’t tired when Bobby shut off every light in the house and went to bed at nine-thirty; Dean spent most of his nights reading, anyway.

            Bobby had an extensive library.

            There were clues hidden under clues inside these books that reminded Dean of Sam; bits and pieces about humans stronger than most, faster than most; legends that dated back to nothing and had no real origin. Rumors inked into margins. Something someone heard from the friend of a friend of their mother’s sixth cousin, and it somehow ended up inside a dusty old tome on Bobby’s shelf.

            Dean wasn’t entirely sure that it mattered, in the end, what kind of monster Sam was; he just didn’t want him to be Faceless anymore.

            But the books yielded nothing more than vague clues and eventual disappointments, and Dean went to bed in Bobby’s spare room upstairs every night with the feeling that he’d be going home to the same problems he’d left behind. Assuming John wouldn’t sell Sam off to a Snatcher while Dean had his back turned.

            Those kinds of thoughts kept Dean up to his elbows in work, just for the distraction. Working the Impala was like training: he could build up a sweat, let his cares and concerns trickle down into the small of his back, dampen his shirt through layers and steam out until he washed it all off at the end of the day, and started over again the next.

            He’d never been an outright proficient mechanic, but summers at Bobby’s had taught him a little bodywork here, a little engine tinkering there, and with patience now Bobby was showing him how exactly to rework the mangled trash heap of a car into something presentable.

            That was how Bobby found him a week into the forced exile, on his back under the Impala and tightening bent slivers of metal back into alignment. Dean felt a foot cock under the creeper’s edge and tug, sliding him out into daylight.

            “Ow, Bobby.” He complained, the echo of bright light off the edge of the steel shed melting holes into his vision.

            “Sack up, princess. A little sunlight ain’t gonna hurt ya.” Bobby offered him a hand and Dean traded the wrench from his right hand to his left, letting Bobby drag him to his feet. “How’s she feelin’?”

            “She’s on the rebound, aren’t ya, sweetheart?” Dean thumbed the scuffed edge of the door. “Yeah, she’ll need a little touch up after this, get that little black dress back on her, good as new. But I think she’s gonna pull through.”

            “Don’t get your hopes up yet, kid. There’s still miles to go before this thing’s in working condition.” Bobby held out a beer. “Here, rehydrate.”

            “Thanks.” Dean popped the tab off and flicked it into the junkyard, listening to it plop and clatter against the rusted door of some gutted car. “Man, I’d love to take this thing for a spin when she’s fixed up.”

            “Your daddy would have a fit. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never heard of John Winchester ever once lettin’ anyone else behind the wheel of that car.”

            “Maybe that’s why I wanna do it.” Dean traced the lip of the bottle with his tongue. “Piss the old man off some more.”

            “Well, aren’t you the shinin’ example of a good sport?” Bobby circled the Impala, running his hand over the dents in her hood. Dean watched him for a second, then tipped his head back and swirled down beer.

            “Eh, whatever. What’s the verdict?”

            “Well, we still gotta flatten out these doors an’ replace the windows, clean the blood off the seats, patch up the steering column. Trunk top’s shot to hell, gotta look for one out in the yard.” Bobby crouched and smoothed one hand across the tires. “You got four flats, bent rims, and about two weeks of body work left up top.”

            “You’re just tryin’ to keep me around.”

            “I got a soft spot for the biggest thorn in my ass.”

            Dean leaned his hands experimentally against the hood of the car. “Seriously, though? You think this is gonna take another two weeks?”

            “That’s bein’ optimistic.” Bobby paused. “Why? You missin’ a ball somewhere, Cinderella?”

            Dean felt sun-warmed metal prickling under his fingertips. “Oakland fight’s tomorrow.”

            Bobby sighed. “Dean—”

            “Yeah, yeah, I know. Vacation. I’m out here to find my inner guru.” Dean growled. “So I can sit on my ass while Sam’s out there in a Pit somewhere. We shoulda been moving on to tier-two by now.”

            “You’re givin’ him _Hunter training_?”

            Dean lifted his chin defiantly, shrugged. “Not like it’s gonna kill him.”

            “Holy Moses, John was right. You’re treatin’ that kid like he was your own flesh and blood.”

            Dean slammed his hand on the hood and straightened. “Y’know, I’m getting’ really tired of hearing everyone say that.”

            “Well, maybe, if you weren’t such a basket-case when it comes to Sam—”

            “How is this being a _basket-case_? I’m out here, right?”

            “Maybe your body is, but where’s your head at?” Bobby challenged, and Dean looked away. “That’s right, it’s back in Lawrence. Tomorrow, it’s gonna be in Oakland. And who the hell knows where else from there?”

            Dean scoffed but it fell short, and he settled his weight forward on the palms of his hands again. “He needs me, Bobby. What else am I supposed to do?”

            “You really sure this is about Sam needin’ someone to look after him? Or is it about _you_ needin’ something to protect?”

            “Y’know what, screw this. I didn’t come out here to get a crash course in psychology.” Dean crouched and rolled onto the creeper. “And I don’t have to explain myself. To you or my dad.” He kicked himself under the car, finding something peaceful in the bulk of her massive shadow falling across him.

            He heard gravel crunch as Bobby settled beside the car. “Don’t be a sensitive little ass. Your daddy may give you a free pass on that bitchy attitude, but I am too old and too tired for your crap.”

            Dean responded like a mute.

            Bobby grabbed his knee and slid him back out in the sunlight. “You’ve been a holy terror since I brought you out here, Dean. Stompin’ like a sasquatch, raisin’ hell about every damn thing. And I ain’t gonna tolerate it no more. You shape up and act like a man instead of a spoiled big-city brat, or I’ll lock your ass in that shed and let you freeze to death.”

            It was a splash of cold water to the face, to have his surliness thrown right back; calculating Bobby’s grim expression, Dean didn’t find an ounce of sympathy or humor. Bobby was dead serious about leaving him outside.

            Draping his arms between his knees, Dean scraped the wrench against the creeper. “Fine. You want me to dish my feelings?”

            “Might be a start.”

            “Well, here goes: I’m totally broken up about my family being the poster children for dysfunctional. I’m a walkin’ case of daddy issues ’cause my dad ditched us for the fights when I was a kid. So I’m projectin’ my buckets of insecurities on Sam by treatin’ him like he’s special.” He paused for dramatic effect, rounding his eyes. “That’s what you wanted hear, right?”

            Bobby frowned. “When did you turn into a jackass?”

            “I’m not exactly the sharing and caring type, so can we just drop it?” When Bobby held his silence, Dean kicked his way back under the car. “ _Thank you_.”

            “There’s one thing I can’t parse out.” Bobby’s gravelly voice slid to Dean, muffled. “How’d you get so good right off the jump at doin’ a job your daddy was losin’ ground at for three years?”

            Dean pinched his fingers too tight around a serrated chip of metal, slicing the soft pad of his thumb. “What?”

            “Just somethin’ to be curious about.”

            By the time Dean dragged the creeper out from beneath the Impala, Bobby was already gone.

 

-X-

 

One thing Dean hadn’t banked on: Bobby wasn’t out to get in his good graces.

            It was something he took for granted with John, because the rift between them made them avoid each other. But Bobby didn’t seem concerned if he treaded on Dean’s toes or pushed him about things Dean would rather leave alone. Things like fights, and Sam, and New York.

            It was a process of whittling; Dean started getting weary of it within the first week. He’d stretch himself across the backseat of the Impala and push dents out with his workboots and Bobby would smooth it over from the outside and never stop talking; about the job, about monsters he sold to Handlers that were passing through and finding themselves without a fighter in between Pits that they’d already banked on. Bobby was a chatterbox when he wasn’t around John, and one day Dean snapped, sitting up in the backseat and glaring at him.

            “Dude, do you ever shut up?”

            It would’ve been the start of an intense argument if he’d said it to John; but Bobby’s face went quiet and serious in a way that warned Dean he might’ve crossed a line. He backpedaled.

            “Sorry, I just—”

            “Get out of the car.” Bobby said flatly.

            Dean was reluctant to obey. “Look, Bobby—”

            “Get your sorry ass outta the car!” Bobby barked. “I wanna show you a little somethin’.”

            Dean wondered if Bobby was going to show him the back of his hand, but he obliged in spite of his reservations, sliding out through the mostly-undamaged door and wiping his grease-stained hands on his legs.

            Bobby beckoned him with a jerk of his head, leading the way toward his Kutless, parked beside the house. He got in behind the wheel and waited, fingers tapping staccato on the steering wheel until Dean took the cue and climbed in the passenger’s seat.

            They drove in weighted silence, Dean hunching himself against the window, his frustration sapped by a feeling of guilt; it wasn’t Bobby he was angry with, not when it came down to it. John was the one he wanted to go toe-to-toe with.

            He stared out the window at the funneling of dilapidated buildings rising up on the flanks of the Kutless, a thick swarm of moss-covered, half-toppled three-sided structures. He picked his head up off the window.

            “What is this?”

            “ _This_ ,” Bobby echoed gruffly. “Is Sioux Falls. Or it used to be, back in its heyday. Folk used to take care of each other out here; real generational town. I watched the kids in this place grow up, tie the knot and have kids of their own.”

            “Looks like someone dropped an A-Bomb out here.” Dean rested his arm on the windowsill.

            “Might as well have.”

            “What happened?”

            “Pit fights happened. Started drawin’ interest. Economy went to hell here, same as everywhere else. Anyone with half a brain got out, moved with the money. Nowadays, can’t find a Pit within fifty miles.” Bobby eased the Kutless to a stop in the middle of the road; a lonely plastic bag somersaulted down the street past them on the flush of the car’s windbreak. Bobby turned to face Dean on the seat. “You wanna know why I give _enough_ of a damn to talk to you? ’Cause I don’t wanna see you end up like me, Dean. Broke down, and all alone, without a soul in fifty miles.”

            “You’re not—”

            “Just, ssh!” Bobby held up a hand. “I ain’t finished.” When Dean didn’t interrupt again, Bobby continued, “I had a head twice the size of yours. Figured I didn’t need _nobody_ , I was just fine on my own. So I bit and kicked and I pushed every damn soul aside that reached out to me for help. Until one day I woke up and those people moved on, gave up on me same as they gave up on everything else in this world. And boy, you do not wanna turn into me.”

            Dean sat frozen, with no real retort; any laconic dismissal by saying that Bobby was a tough old geezer who’d always scraped by solo was chilled inside his throat by the look on Bobby’s face.

            The talking wasn’t just to turn Dean around; Bobby was lonely.

            “If it’s so bad up here, why’d you stay?”

            “Because I got a business to run, and like it or not I’m two steps up from a Snatcher. Handlers come to me lookin’ for a deal, and I do my best to make sure their heads don’t go under.”

            “Thanks, but I’m not a charity case.” Dean crossed his arms and settled more deeply into the musty seat of the Kutless.

            “No. But you are a snot-nosed brat, and sooner or later life’s gonna slap you right in the balls and you ain’t gonna know your up from your down.”

            Dean blinked, then rolled his eyes. “And, what, you think a little heart-to-heart is gonna fix my life?”

            “I’m not out to turn this into some hippie love-fest with the two of us growin’ lady parts.” Bobby turned the key, the engine caught, and the Kutless lurched forward again. “I’m just offerin’ you some wisdom that comes with age: you shut people out long enough, and eventually there ain’t gonna be anyone left to shut out.”

            Dean was left with a sour feeling curdling his insides on the drive back to Bobby’s house. Without a word, they went straight for the Impala and got back to work; the brief trip through the ghost-town might’ve been some kind of hiccup in consciousness, a dehydrated dream, if Dean couldn’t still feel it prickling at his mind for the next hour while they labored over the damaged vehicle.

            It was unseasonably warm in South Dakota for January, so Bobby put Dean to work cleaning the Impala, swiping off the mud that had clung to her after the brief but vicious barrel-roll that had crushed her like a tin can. Dean was crouched on his heels, wiping down and buffing the Impala’s repaired front bender when the words slipped from his cycling thoughts, while Bobby stripped the top of the trunk and retrofitted a replacement from another Impala he’d hunted up, buried under miles of scrap metal on the fringes of his property.

            Finishing one last looping, soapy swirl, Dean rested his wrist on his knee, tipped his head down. “You’re right. I do treat Sam like he’s family.”

            Bobby looked up from his perch on a stack of wood beside the shed. “Come again?”

            Dean squinted against the strip of sunlit glare off the Impala’s silver bumper. “Sam. You were right about him.” Dean tossed the buffing rag into the bucket of foamy, gritty water and stood, stretching the kinks from his cramped back. “I treat him like he’s part of our family.”

            “Uh-huh?” Bobby echoed, and the sound was an encouragement.

            “I dunno if it’s about proving my dad wrong, or what, but ever since we picked him up outta that Snatcher nest, it’s like he’s been my responsibility. Y’know? Like I gotta look after him. Take care of him. If I don’t, no one else is going to.”

            “You sure anyone should? He is a monster, after all.”

            Dean had to wrangle in his immediate flush of anger, and remind himself that Bobby wasn’t challenging him; he was just bringing up the other angle of the issue, forcing Dean to look at every angle.

            Dean thanked God for Maggie Robertson, because he had an answer this time.

            “I don’t know how the whole monster thing works. I dunno if they’re born that way…different. Deformed. I dunno if they’re born normal and just become something else over time. But one thing I do know? Sam is the most human… _thing_ , that I’ve ever met. And he didn’t deserve what Lilith did to him.”

            “And you know that for a fact? He’s Faceless, Dean. Could be he’s killed a lotta people at some point in his life.”

            “Not Sam. You don’t know him, Bobby. That kid gets a guilty conscience fighting for his life in a Pit. He’s not some die-hard murderer.” He knuckled the bumper, satisfied that it was smooth. “My dad sure as hell doesn’t see it that way, though.”

            “Can you blame him?”

            Dean swung a look to Bobby over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

            Bobby got to his feet, laying the replacement hood of the trunk over the yawning maw left behind in absence of the old, ruined door. “I hunted with your dad a few times, back before the Handler business really took off.  Back before you were a bump in Mary’s belly, John was the sorta Hunter that everyone knew his name. Anytime somethin’ took off, snatchin’ folks and rippin’ ’em to shreds, John was the first man on the call.”

            “You serious?”

            “You bet. John could track anything you threw at him. Daytime, nighttime, rain, snow, sunshine. He was everything a Hunter oughta be. S’probably why the Campbells took a shine to him. Your grandpa woulda seen John as a real catch for his daughter.”

            “Dad never told me this stuff.” Dean leaned his hips against the door, watching Bobby. “He’s kinda shut up about hunting.”

            “Well, he would be, his track record bein’ what it was and all.”

            “Wait, I thought you just said—?”

            “I know what I said.” Bobby groused. “I said John was a helluva Hunter, and that’s a fact. Better Hunter than a Handler. And you know why?”

“’Cause he’s crap at pickin’ fights?” Dean guessed.

“No, that ain’t it. Reason he was the biggest name on the job was his heart. John was a real believer in bein’ humane: you don’t torture a soul, monster or not, before you drop it. You make it quick and clean and you’re done. He earned a lotta folks’ respect by bein’ that way.”

Dean tried to reconcile the image of a genteel Hunter to what he’d seen of John’s treatment of Sam; the whole idea got knotted somewhere in between his chest and his head and sat heavy, hot and bitter in his throat. “But the way he pushes Sam around—”

“John’s drownin’ just like the rest of us. Can’t see up from down. And here’s this monster that takes every instinct he’s been sittin’ pretty over since he had to can it for bein’ a Handler, and throws it back in his lap.” Bobby shot him an ironic glance around the bulk of the Impala. “John’s a real headcase, and Sam’s some kinda thing he ain’t seen before. He’s gotta find his own way around to acceptin’ what Sam is and what Sam ain’t, same as you and Mary.”

“I know what Sam is.” Dean answered. “He’s my friend. Hell, sometimes he’s like the little brother I never had. I watch out for him, make sure he’s geared for a fight. He tackled a monster for me.”

“You trust him?”

“I owe him my life.”

“You can owe a man your life and still not trust him.”

Dean shaded his eyes against the sun. “Yeah, I trust him.”  

“Then don’t worry about John’s problems. Worry about the fact that you got a monster somethin’-or-other puttin’ its life in your hands. How long are you gonna hold onto that before it slides out?” He motioned Dean over without waiting for an answer. “Make yourself useful and help me with this.”

“You can’t attach a trunk lid by yourself, tough guy?”

“More work, less flirtin’. You ain’t my type anyway. Too scrawny.” He handed the lid to Dean and showed him where to position it for installation. “Just hold it—yup, right there oughta do it.”

“Holdin’ it.” Dean confirmed, resting his chin on his collarbone and watching as Bobby rooted his toolbox looking for a wrench. “Hey, Bobby? What’d you mean about Sam’s life slippin’ outta my hands?”

“Well, you mighta noticed, monsters don’t last real long. Sam’s done a swell job so far, but eventually he’s gonna come toe-to-toe with somethin’ that his fancy footwork can’t win out so easy.” Bobby ducked under the lid and started tinkering with the underside. “That’s one of the reasons we don’t get attached, Dean. More ya care about your monsters, the more you stand to lose.”

Dean quirked a dry smile. “Sam’s not gonna die out there, he’s…I mean, c’mon. He’s _Sam_.”

Sam the showstopper, Sam the invincible, Sam the scuffed, scraped, shaggy-haired kid. Sam was _different_.

“Exactly. He’s Sam. He’s a Faceless. Means he don’t get to have what other monsters got out there; besides all the pointy teeth and acrobatics.”

“What else d’you think he’s missing out on?”

Bobby finished tightening the mounts and shoved the lid down, almost slamming it on Dean’s fingers. “A fighting chance.”

 

-X-

 

Bobby felt like he was a little too old to be working cars everyday; his back just wasn’t what it used to be. The cold made his joints stiff and his skin leathery and shrunken across his chest and he was just all around uncomfortable by the time he got to making a sizzling pot of chili for himself and for Dean, who’d vanished upstairs to shower fifteen minutes ago, in the dark. Dean never turned the lights on in the house; Bobby didn’t bother asking why.

The chili burbled and simmered, devouring the handful of brown sugar he sprinkled on the surface. Tan speckles melted and disappeared and that, Bobby thought, would be a good symbolism for his life, if he was in the mood to compare. Bits and pieces sinking into a conglomerate whole. Tiny facets that stood out before they absorbed, but they absorbed just the same.

Somewhere behind him, Dean’s footsteps padded down the stairs and met the floor, and Bobby cropped a smile toward his chili; Dean was a thornbush of a hundred feelings, and barbed wire wrapped tight around his emotions, but for the first time in as long back as Bobby cared to think, there were breathing sounds and conversations in this house. John Winchester was a lucky man; even having lost his family, he’d called them back, started to rebuild something after more than a decade of stubborn silence.

It was a chance Bobby would never have, and it rankled him to see John and Dean pushing each other away.

“You need any help?” Dean leaned in the doorway, smelling like men’s soap and some tangy aftershave.

“Don’t want you drippin’ any of your lady’s shampoo in this feast. Git.”

“Oh, please. I don’t use girly shampoo.” Dean complained his way out of the kitchen, and Bobby added half a tablespoon of cocoa powder to the brew.

There was an audible click, and the radio in the adjacent living room crackled to life. It was less than a second later that Bobby dropped the spoon, splashing chili all over himself; he’d forgotten he’d left it tuned right in to the station that broadcasted fights.

Plucking the chili-coated utensil from the pot, Bobby stuck his head into the room. “Dean, I ain’t an officer of the law, but John said—”

“I know what my dad said, Bobby.” Dean was sunken into the sofa, the radio on his knees. “You told me to ditch his problems, so that’s what I’m doing. You wanna stop me, you can break the damn radio.”

Wearing dark circles under his eyes and defiance etched in every line of his body, Bobby knew that Dean was serious.

He retreated to the kitchen with a nod.

It was strangely domestic: Bobby, clattering around in the kitchen, adding pinches of this and sprinkles of that to the chili; Dean, in the living room, dragging heavy books off the shelves, surrounding himself with them, pulling up a chair so the radio would be right next to his head, so he wouldn’t miss a second of the broadcast.

The minute he heard Sam’s name cross the speakers—not a name, to the announcers, a title; monsters didn’t have names—Bobby’s stomach took a sharp plunge to his knees. He wouldn’t admit it unless under pain of death, but he liked the kid. From what little Bobby had seen of him, Sam was reserved, polite, and he had a smile to die for, the kind that would drive girls up the walls. He’d shaken Bobby’s hand when Bobby had picked up Dean, asked him how his drive was and thanked him for saving the car. He’d taken Bobby aside and asked for his help with something else, too; something Bobby had found himself agreeing to because it was damned powerful magic, that boy’s smile, and he employed it with innocent timeliness.

The same way he’d smiled at Bobby for poking and prodding him for half an hour the first time they’d met. Like any kind touch or kindness at all was something Sam treasured. Hard to see the monster in that.

So he followed Sam’s fights on his own time, with that faithful little radio and the intermittent static of the nationwide feed; and he was dreading, somewhere right down in his guts, the day when he had to turn it off because the announcer was describing in graphic detail the exact slippery sleek color of Sam’s entrails coating the inside of a Pit.

Something felt off-kilter to Bobby as he listened with half an ear to the broadcast. It was a few minutes before he realized that aside from the radio, there wasn’t a sound coming from that living room. Bobby wiped his gritty hands on his apron and went back for another look.

Dean was perched cross-legged on the couch, half a dozen books on monster lore circling him, his back to the armrest. With his chin propped on his fist and his elbow digging into his knee, he kept his head turned toward the radio. Eyes closed. Face twitching, his mind recreating the fight as they announced it.

It struck Bobby right then that aside from the company Dean brought and fixing the Impala up to some semblance of working condition, this whole idea was a bust. Dean would go home and go right back to the fight, because of any number of reasons. But the most was that it pumped somewhere deep in his veins, from right beside his heart. Somehow the life had hooked its tentacles into Dean same way it had John, and Mary’s father before him, and thousands of others throughout the years. They couldn’t turn Dean back; fighting was a part of him because fighting was a part of Sam and Sam was a part of Dean. No ifs, ands, or buts. Somewhere along the way, something inside of Dean that had been missing had been filled in. That hole had been Sam-shaped.

Struck by the clarity of this realization, Bobby stood mutely in the doorway.

He was revived by a rush of masking sound from the radio, the announcer bellowing to be heard over it, “And I don’t believe it! Right when he was cornered…that kick came out of nowhere! That’s the kind of fancy footwork we’ve come to expect from this monster!”

Dean’s eyes flashed open, a broad smile curving his lips. “That’s my boy.”

Bobby beat a retreat before Dean could see him there.

When the chili was finished, rather than calling Dean to the table like he did every night, Bobby took the food to him. Dean accepted the bowl with a look of gratitude, shifting books aside to make room for Bobby on the couch. “He just stomped out a Dipsa.”

“You’re jokin’. Those things still make it into fights?”

“Apparently.”

“He get bit?”

“Sam? Hell, no, Bobby. He’s too good.”

There it was again; just a statement of fact, blind faith. For a Winchester, that was deeper than any other man’s faith, but Bobby wasn’t ready to hash that out for himself just yet. He watched Dean take a bite of chili, almost burning himself, a little bit catching on his bottom lip.

“Holy crap! Dude, this is delicious!” Dean exclaimed. “I haven’t had hot food since…” He shook his head. “I think it was Manchester.”

That came as a surprise to Bobby; Manchester had been closing in on two months ago. “What do you people eat?”

Dean shrugged. “Canned goods and Cheerios.” Then he grinned, like that was the punchline to some personal joke.

Bobby let it slide.

They moved along from chili—damn good chili, and Bobby wasn’t the least bit biased—to beers, Dean stretching out with one arm draped over the armrest and his head tipped onto his shoulder, eyes on the radio. It was a drawn-out fight, round after round and Sam was only in every other fight. Cleaning house. No mention of demons.

It wasn’t until Dean’s foot jerked violently, digging cold toes into Bobby’s leg, that he realized Dean had fallen asleep.

“Aw, ain’t that adorable.” Bobby muttered under his breath. He heaved himself off the couch and grabbed the blanket off the back, pausing at the announcer’s voice over the roar in the background, declaring the fight a finish and Sam the winner. “Good for you, son.”

            He switched the radio off and draped the blanket over Dean, took the bowls into the kitchen. He was halfway through putting the chili away when his phone rang.

            Grumbling, more at the late hour than anything, Bobby answered. “Y’ello?”

            “It’s John.”

            “I mighta known.” Bobby tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder and ladled chili into a Tupperware container. “How was that gig out in Oakland?”

            “Just got out. Sam’s crashed already. Sprained his wrist, so Mary’s gotta look at it.” John sighed. “He wasn’t letting on, but I could see it in his eyes, Bobby, he’s in a lotta pain.” A dry chuckle punctuated that sentence. “Part of me wishes I had Dean here, he’s good with taking Sam’s mind off his hurts.”

            “Well, I’m keepin’ the idjit busy.”

            John switched gears, much more formal. “How’s the Impala?”

            “She’s comin’ along. Nowhere near ready for drag racin’, but I should have ’em both back to you by the end of the month.”

            “Bobby, I’ve been thinkin’…”

            “Lord help us.”

            “Could you be serious for a second?” John growled, and the desperation in his voice reminded Bobby of the fact that he might be the only friend John Winchester had, and who else was there to turn to? It sobered him up.

            “I’m listenin’.”

            “It’s been a week and a half since Dean left and I can’t help feeling like I made the wrong choice. Like I’ve made _all_ the wrong choices. I mean, sure, Dean’s a royal pain in the ass, he’s stubborn, he’s arrogant, but he’s my boy. I sent him away when he was twelve and I sent him away now…what does that say about me? What does that _do_ to him?”

            Something in John’s voice alerted Bobby, and he brought the phone closer to his ear, using his hand this time. “John, you been drinkin’?”

            There was a sullen pause. “Maybe, just a little.”

            “And you’re drivin’? What in the name of God is the matter with you?”

            “I miss my son, that’s what! I’m in this car with this monster who could be Dean’s younger _shadow_ and this truck smells like Dean and I never shoulda sent him off just ’cause I was mad about the way he treats Sam…”

            “Stop right there.” Bobby snapped. “Now, you are a lotta things, John, but you ain’t near this stupid. Pull the damn truck over and sleep this off.”

            The engine cut off in the background, so Bobby thought maybe John had had the sense to pull over _before_ he’d made the call. “He hates me, Bobby. Him and Mary both. All I got is this monster who probably hates me, too. But I watched him put his faith in me today, go into that fight with both guns blazing even without Dean there. In what screwed-up world could a man like me deserve that loyalty?”

            Bobby reminded himself to store this conversation deep in his memory, write it all down. He was fairly sure this would be the only time he’d ever wrangle this kind of honesty out of John Winchester. “Maybe Dean ain’t the only one who needs Sam around. Maybe you oughta take another look at how you relate to this kid.”

            “ _He is a monster_.” John said, but he didn’t sound so sure, not with alcohol distorting his judgment.

            “I can tell you one thing, John. I see men come through here every few weeks, lookin’ to trade or sell or buy. And all I gotta say is, the monsters they give me and the things they take out, those ain’t the ones starvin’ folks, beatin’ ’em, throwin’ ’em half-dead into fights. Maybe we are survivin’, but it ain’t without a price.”

            “We’re not the monsters here, Bobby. We’re human.”

            “Not so sure it’s that black and white, John.”

            There was a wet, rattling intake of breath. “I gotta go.”

            “John—”

            The line went dead.

            “Balls,” Bobby muttered. He glanced at the living room; Dean had tucked the blanket tighter around himself, his cheek pressed into the armrest. His breath fluttered the edge of the blanket.

            Tossing the phone on the table, Bobby went back to his task.

 

-X-

 

            John emerged from the truck with the wet, torrid spatter of vomit squeezing between his teeth.

            He crashed to his knees on the roadside verge, supporting himself on his uninjured hand as his stomach emptied itself into the stale, frosty grass. Midmorning light punctured a spray of clouds overhead, and his ruthlessly-whirling head didn’t know if it was the close proximity to Sam in the truck all night or the few beers he’d had in Oakland that had left his guts in the process of climbing their way up his throat.

            He remembered snatches, pulling over and calling Bobby and _oh God Bobby_ , Bobby was never going to let him live this down. In the near twenty years they’d been friends, John hadn’t betrayed much of the things that drove him to drinking; it was an unspoken rule that every man had a sorrow or two, a phantom screaming in his ear that couldn’t be silenced except by the harsh helping hand of alcohol. These were the dead bodies you never talked about, never looked for; their gravestones were written in regret and drenched in salted rain. They’d come to stand in your room at night and you’d pretend you couldn’t see them, couldn’t hear them, because they weren’t your ghosts to face.

            That was the rule; it was how men with destructive pasts managed to churn together like cogs in a great machine.

            And John had seamlessly handed his ghosts to Bobby last night.  

            He purged his insides again, tasting nothing but the lukewarm California air and his own bile. His sling pressed his arm tight to his churning stomach; the cab of the truck had been humid overnight, made even warmer by their bodies crammed into the bench seat, and sweat wetted John’s hair to his forehead and made his scalp itch.

            As an adult, a part of him reasoned, as a _parent_ , he should be able to keep it together better than this; he should be able to be apart from his estranged son without drinking his feelings into oblivion. As a Handler, he should be able to view his monster objectively; as a failure to his family, he should be able to bear the burden of being alone.

            But he couldn’t, he wasn’t the perfect kind of detached that would embrace everything he should be, all that he deserved. John craved contact with Mary; he felt regret for his treatment of Sam. And right now he missed Dean with an ache so profound, it felt like lead in his bones.

            The truck rattled on the roadside, and John heard the soft impact of Sam’s boots tapping dirt. A second later he shied away from a hot, enormous hand on his shoulder.

            “Stay back,” John warned.

            “What happened? What’s wrong?” Sam’s concern was genuine, obvious in his voice, and it brought on a surge of irrational anger.

            “Get your ass back in the truck,” John wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, stopping in midmotion as his insides rebelled again in a spew of all the food he’d consumed the day before. Sam’s hand never left John’s shoulder, but his grip tightened, steadying John as he swayed.

            It was a full minute before the purge receded into dry-heaving, then stilled, and John was left gagging on his own tongue and feeling crowded by Sam’s hand keeping him from tipping over.

            “I don’t _need_ your help,” He barked.

            “No, sir.” Sam’s reply was short but sincere. “You don’t.” He still didn’t move his hand, and John was too wrung-out and unbalanced to shake it off.

            The sunlight bowed out to a dusky bank of clouds, and a wave of almost lightheaded relief overtook John as the nausea faded. He straightened up on his knees and Sam fell back, sitting hard on the ground.

            “Can I ask you something?”

            John spat on the grass, trying to rid his mouth of the foul aftertaste. “Go ahead.”

            Sam linked his arms loosely around his knees, twisting his fingers together. “I’m never gonna be able to prove myself to you, am I?”

            The question settled rock-hard in John’s gut. “Is that what all of this is about? The way you take on these fights? How hard you train with Dean? You want to prove yourself to this family?”

            Sam shrugged, pressing his thumbs together and watching the movement with rapt attention. “I don’t remember my parents. Fighting’s…kind of the only thing I ever had. And I was awful at it,” He admitted bluntly. “I always got my ass kicked.”

            John couldn’t help the slight smile that engaged at that. “You’re not the first monster I’ve seen through a fight they couldn’t win.”

            Sam’s reciprocating twitch of a smile was almost bashful, in a way. Like a love-starved child who’d been granted the attention it craved. “I’ll never stop trying to show you. You _and_ Dean. And Mary.”

            “Show us what?”

            “That I’m not a monster. That I…I may be something else. Not human.” Sam rubbed one hand down his leg. “But I’m not what you think I am, either.”

            “And what do I _think_ you are, Sam?”

            “In a word? Evil.” Sam replied frankly. “I see the way you look at me. Like I’m a freak. Like you’re waiting for me to turn into something that has to be put down.” John didn’t deny it, and Sam went on: “Even if you hate me, you’re not like other Handlers. Right? You care. You took me in.”

            “Still not sure I was in my right mind.”

            “But we’re here. And Dean and Mary can keep _living_ , because we go to these fights, and we win.” Sam said earnestly. “Look, I care about them, too. I’ll do anything I have to, to keep them safe. Just like you. We’re on the same team, here.”

            And just like that, between one breath and another, they stepped onto common ground, and a fragment of John’s view shifted.

            “Maybe we’re both different,” Sam went on. “You don’t want to be like other Handlers. I don’t want to be just another monster starving for its next— _whatever_. And if you just give me a chance, I can show you that I’m different. Just…please. _Please_.”

            Worn-down and blunted with exhaustion, John creaked to his feet. “We’ll see.” In any case, he could believe Sam as far as watching out for Dean and Mary. It would be ignorant on his part to pretend even for a second that Sam wouldn’t put Dean’s wellbeing before his own; the concussive head wound he’d suffered from the crash and Sam’s diligence to take care of both Dean and John before he’d even considered himself, was proof enough of that.

            And if nothing else, Sam was right: that put them in the same lonely margin. Side by side, not unified, but cohesive.

            Sam stood, as well, the tepid breeze kicking his hair into feathers around his face. “So, you trust me?”

            John narrowed his eyes. “Don’t press your luck.”

            Sam laughed, but the sound was edged with some degree of sadness. “Hey, d’you know when Dean’s coming home?”

            John’s reply of, “Not sure,” held a hint of, _Not soon enough._

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Twelve: Fighting Blood

 

            Roy Bateman limped onto Bobby Singer’s property exactly sixteen days after Dean started to work on the Impala, and changed everything.

            She was slowly starting to look serviceable, even with two rims still bent and dents all over. Dean was crumpled on the front bench seat, kneading the caved roof out with the steady pressure of his heels, when a hand slammed down on the metal over his feet, sending a vibration chattering straight into his pelvis.

            “Geeze!” He scrambled to sit up and found himself face-to-face with the Handler Sam had taken down outside the bar in Manchester. “Well, howdy, Roy.”

            “Howdy yourself.” Roy leaned his head in the naked frame of the glassless window. “Fancy meetin’ the likes of you out here. This thing for sale?”

            “Not a chance.” Dean shoved the door open with his foot, forcing Roy to shuffle back, bearing almost no weight on his right leg. “How’s the knee?”

            Roy’s antagonistic smirk slipped into a vicious scowl. “I’m gonna take that one outta your pretty face.”

            “I’m shaking in my boots. Hey, I may be adorable, but I’ve got my fair share of scars.” Dean slammed the door shut. “C’mon, let’s add a couple more. See if it makes ya feel better.”

            Roy looked Dean up and down—dressed in jeans and a stained, short-sleeved flannel shirt over a beater underneath, and still exuding an air of complete control over the situation—and seemed to second-guess his chances with a kneecap still healing from dislocation. “Give it time. Take it out on your boy with the scruffy hair instead. Still owe him for this knee, got half a mind to repay him in kind.”

            Dean would’ve thrown a punch right there on principle alone, if Bobby hadn’t come out of the shed with a mallet to pound the Impala’s roof flat, and caught them going toe-to-toe with Dean’s hand fisted in Roy’s shirt.

            “Hey!” Bobby barked. “Don’t be assualtin’ my clients, Dean. I oughta beat your ass six ways from Sunday.”

            Reluctantly, Dean loosened his grip and backed off. “You know this yahoo?”

            “Sorry to say, Roy and I go way back.”

            “Oh, well, lucky you.” Dean rolled his eyes. “If you don’t mind, _Roy_ , I gotta get back to work.”

            “Oh, not at all. You tell that John Winchester I still got his calling card and I’m gonna pay him a lil’ visit sometime.”

            “You give that a shot, and your kneecaps are gonna match.” Dean threatened, sliding himself back into the front seat.

            Roy snorted, and Bobby met him beside the car, their murmured conversation easily overheard through the glassless eye of the window.

            “You on your way to a Pit?” Bobby cleaned his hands off on a soiled square of cloth, eyebrows raised.

            “Just so happens I am. In the market for another monster, last one a fella promised me was a bust. Bad trade. You got anything on ya?”

            “Not at the moment. Sold out my last right before the start of the year.” Their voices and footsteps retreated. “You bring that busted monster for a trade?”

            “Wasn’t hardly worth the cost of gas if you can’t help me out, Singer. But, yeah, I brought the little bitch. Wanna take her off my hands? Can’t feed her and sure as hell don’t want her stinkin’—”

            Dean didn’t catch the end of Roy’s mini-rant, a gust of wind skirling through the interior of the Impala and swallowing all sound; by the time it abated, Bobby and Roy had moved on.

            Dean thrust his heels against the dented roof, every muscle corded with anger.

            He really didn’t like people threatening his dad.

            _Shove_. _Pop_.

            Or Sam.

            With the dent solved, Dean crawled out for the mallet, smoothed down the lumpy edges, then grabbed the panel of glass that Bobby had cut for the driver’s side window. He was sliding it into the pane when he heard a door slam, catching his attention.

            “Get the _hell_ off my property, and if I ever see your sorry ass within a hundred miles, I’ll load you so full of buckshot you’ll be crappin’ ball bearings!”

            A guttural engine backfired, and by the time Dean dragged himself to his feet Roy was tearing out of the junkyard, leaving a plume of smoke and the stench of burned rubber hanging on the air behind him.

            Dean leaned the glass against the Impala and hurried to join Bobby by the house. “What happened?”

            “That son of a bitch,” Bobby was snorting with rage, sucking in lungfuls of smoke like he could breathe fire back out. “That stupid, sick son of a bitch.”

            “Bobby!” Dean grabbed his shoulder. “What did he do?”

            That stirred Bobby from his rage; he turned toward the house, visibly trembling with anger. “I’ll show you.”

            He led the way around the backside of the house, where a small grassy verge emptied of used cars stretched as far as the fence bordering the six or seven acres of the junkyard. Judging by the overhang and the straw-coated dirt patch underneath it, Dean guessed this was where Bobby kept monsters that people dropped off with him.

            Roy’s charge was lying crumpled on the straw, and for a second Dean thought it was dead; then it looked up, alerted to their approach, and Dean’s stomach dipped fast to his knees.

            The girl couldn’t have been much older than seven or eight years, gaps in her mouth from missing baby teeth. Her tangled blond hair hung in hanks over her shoulders, but her eyes looked bright and seemed alert.

            Dean slowed his stride. “What is she?”

            “Werewolf. Ain’t time for the cycle.”

            “Dude, Bobby.” Dean said, softly. “She’s just a kid.”

            The little girl sat up all the way when they reached her, then tried to get to her feet. That was when the whole situation started making sense; her tangled, malformed legs looked like they’d been broken half a dozen times and healed wrong. They couldn’t support her weight, and she sank back down. But she was still _smiling_.

            “Hi!”

            “Hey.” Dean crouched in front of her. “Looks like you got scraped up.”

            “That’s okay. It doesn’t hurt.” She dimpled a smile that reminded Dean an awful lot of Sam. “What’s your name?”

            “I’m Dean. This is Bobby.”

            “I know! He already told me. I’m Chelsea.” She reached up and rubbed her knuckles over his forehead. “You got black stuff on your face.”

            “I do, huh?” Dean licked his thumb and wiped the patch she’d touched. “Better?”

            “Mm-hmm!” She nodded. Her gaze slid to Bobby. “That bad man’s not coming back, is he? I don’t like him. He smells funny.”

            “No, that bad man’s long gone.” Bobby’s voice caught; Dean could understand his hesitancy. He’d seen monsters before that raised the question of just how far this industry had fallen, but this was a huge step in the wrong direction. Bobby cleared his throat. “I got a couple calls to make. You mind sittin’ with her, Dean?”

            Whatever excuse he’d been planning to get himself back to the car evaporated the second Chelsea grabbed his hand. “Stay! Please?”

            Dean choked down a groan. “I’m boring.”

            “That’s okay, we can be boring together.” She scooted herself toward the back of the shelter, dragging her useless legs behind her, and that solved it. Dean glanced at Bobby, then ducked under the overhang and dropped himself onto the straw in a puff of dust. Chelsea giggled.

            “What’s so funny?” Dean asked, cracking a smile.

            “ _You’re_ funny.”

            “Oh, I’m a riot.” Dean poked her under the arm and she curled away from him, giggling. “How old are you, kid?”

            “Seven and three-quarters!”

            “D’you even know what that means?”

            “No, but that’s what mommy said I was. That means I’m seven and almost eight dollars, right?”

            “You got it.” Dean said absently. “Where is your, uh…where’s your mom?”

            “Dunno,” Chelsea shrugged. “After I got bit by the dog, my daddy told the bad man to take care of me.” She frowned at her legs. “The bad man isn’t nice. He made me walk funny. And wrestle people.” She shook her head. “I don’t like wrestling.”

            “Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t.” Dean studied her hair. “Looks like you got a crow’s nest on your head.”

            She giggled again. “Wanna brush it? Mommy always brushed my hair every night before I went to sleep.”

            “Sorry, this is a man’s house. No hair brushes.” Dean started tugging his fingers through the ends of her hair, working knots loose one-handed. “So, wrestling’s not your thing. Lemee guess…princess?”

            “Nuh-uh. I wanna be a brain doctor.”

            That stopped him. “What, like a neurosurgeon?”

            “What’s a nero-surging?”

            Dean smirked. “Nevermind. Why a brain doctor?”

            “’Cause then maybe I can help people who think bad things, maybe I can…can help them think _right_ things again.”

            There was a part of Dean that wished it was that easy.

            After a few minutes of silence, Chelsea swatted his hand. “You gotta sing while you do it!”

            “While I do what?”

            “Brush my hair! Mommy always sings when she does it.” She started humming something that was ridiculously off-key and unrecognizable. Dean grinned to himself and picked it up, settling on _Hey Jude_. He was getting grease inside the knots in her hair, but if it gave this damaged little girl some kind of comfort, he didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

            He was angry, too; angry at Roy, angry at Chelsea’s parents for selling her off when they found out what she was. A kid that age had no place in the circuit, or in Qualifiers; untrained, underdeveloped, scared. _Broken_. Shy, speechless, Faceless.

            Some people deserved better. Anything with a heartbeat deserved better than being a monster, than being in the Pits.

            Slowly, untangling the knots, Dean unraveled things inside himself.

            “You sing good.” Chelsea declared a few minutes later, and she rolled herself over, legs flopping bonelessly through the straw. She looked up at him, her head craned all the way back. “Hi.”

            “Hi,” Dean shot back, unable to help the grin that came to his features in turn. Chelsea reached up, smoothing her thumbs against the skin beside his temples, feeling the crows-feet that feathered away from his eyes when he smiled.

            “I like your eyes,” She said. “They look like grass.”

            “Uh. Thanks?”

            She dropped herself hard against him, her back to his chest. “Tell me a story.”

            Dean was having a hard time keeping up with her. “Okay, uh, what kinda story?”

            “A story without any bad men who win things.”

            Dean racked his brains, realizing as he did that he’d never be any kind of decent father. He was at a total loss. “This is a story about…a guy named John. And a bunch of aliens.”

            “You mean like big, outerspace aliens?”

            “Huge ones. With two heads.”

            Chelsea’s eyes widened. “Were they bad?”

            “Oh, yeah. But John, he was smarter than these guys. He beat ’em.”

            “ _How_?”

            Leaning back on the palms of his hands, Dean made the story up as he went; anything Chelsea guessed at, that was how the story went. Unicorns made a cameo. The alien leader was named Roy. And by the time Bobby came back out to join them, Chelsea was sitting on Dean’s chest while he crashed on his back on the straw, narrating with his hands the final battle between John the Bold and the Dread Alien Roy.

            “Am I interruptin’ story time?” Bobby asked.

            “Ssh, this is the best part of the story!” Chelsea waved a hand at him.

            “So John takes his sword,” Dean mimed gripping the blade with both hands. “And he stabs Roy—boom!—” He thrust his fists down quickly, startling her. “He kills Roy and frees all of the people the aliens were gonna take back to Alderan.”

            “And he married the pretty lady?”

            “Yep. John married Mary and they had a couple kids and lived happy.”

            “I like it, I like it!” She bounced on his chest, forcing the breath out of his lungs. “Tell me another story!”

            “Just a second,” Dean met Bobby’s eyes, reading the solemnity of his expression. “Sit tight, I’ll be back. Hey, I’ll tell you what, I’ll bring my guitar, play you a couple songs.”

            “Okay.” Chelsea slid off his chest and Dean stood, following Bobby a safe distance from the shelter.

            “I called around,” Bobby intoned, perching his hands on his hips. “Rufus, and an old friend named Jodi Mills. It ain’t good, Dean. There’s not a hospital outside the big cities, and the big cities won’t take in a monster.”

            “Okay, so, we fix her up here.” Dean said, his eyes on Chelsea as she played with the detangled ends of her hair.

            “Dean,” The gentleness of Bobby’s voice captured his full attention. “That little girl ain’t ever gonna walk again. Roy had her hopped up on painkillers to stop her screamin’ on the way over. But when those wear off, she’ll be in a world of hurt, and it ain’t gonna get better. We’re talkin’ a bent spine, useless little legs, the works. This kid ain’t got a life ahead of her, just a whole lotta suffering.”

            “Wait, what are you saying?” Dean demanded. “Bobby, we can’t kill her!”

            “I got a bottle of old barbiturate up in the cabinet. Put a good dose of that in some hot chocolate and she’ll just go to sleep.”

            Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Bobby, she’s just a kid.”

            “I know. And it ain’t fair, and I shoulda shot Roy full of lead while he was here. But it’s on us to handle this proper and do right by that little girl. I can’t have her here, not with the monsters that come passin’ through, and she’s only gonna hurt herself every time she transforms.”

            “I don’t believe this,” Dean muttered under his breath.

            “It’s the only choice we got, son.”

            It was wrong, it needled under Dean’s skin hot and crooked and sharp, and stung the backs of his eyes and the insides of his nostrils. He turned back to Bobby. “Fine. But we’re gonna feed her first.”

            Bobby nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

            Dean led the way back to the shelter. “Hey, kiddo. Bobby here’s fixin’ some dinner. You hungry?”

            “Yeah, I’m starving!” She slid onto her knees. “I want a hot dog! No, I want _four_ hot dogs! And mashed potatoes!”

            Dean sent a silent, questioning look to Bobby, who nodded.

            “All right, let’s have ourselves a feast. C’mon.” Dean held his hands out to her and Chelsea lifted her arms, letting Dean pick her up. She didn’t weigh much more than a sack of potatoes and Dean slung her over his shoulders, her laughter right in his ear on the way into the house.

            He left the kitchen-work to Bobby, since he wasn’t exactly a culinary genius himself. Sitting on the couch with Chelsea on his knees, Dean balanced the guitar across her legs and played any song she asked for. She knew mostly hymns, songs Dean had to play by memory from having Mary sing them to him when he was younger.

            The song he kept coming back to was James Taylor’s _You’ve Got a Friend_. It rang like a lullaby but it sounded like a promise, and it was the one song Dean always associated with a curtain of blond hair tickling his cheek, Mary tucking him against her side as she sang him through childhood fevers and bad dreams.

            Chelsea laid her hands on the body of the guitar, eyes closed, feeling the vibrations as Dean’s fingers moved across the strings.

            When Bobby called them into the kitchen, Dean scooped up Chelsea in one arm and the guitar in his free hand and deposited her in front of the plate of four cut-up hot dogs and a mountain of mashed potatoes.

            “Eat up, princess.” Bobby pulled out the chair across from her, and Dean sat beside her. His eyes found their way back to her legs, over and over, and a tortured fire of hatred for Roy welled up in his gut. He didn’t see a werewolf, looking at her; he saw a girl who’d never even had a chance, thrown into this life and bartered and abused. She didn’t understand what had happened to her, but she still had the faith in him, trusted him enough to let him tell her stories and play her songs.

            Blind faith. Like Sam’s.

            Dean had the sudden, visceral feeling that if Sam was with him right now, Dean would pull him outside and train with him until neither of them could see straight. And then he’d look Sam in the eye and tell him he _mattered_ , he was different and he didn’t deserve any of this.

            Chelsea ate like a starving animal, wolfing down the hot dogs, shoveling in mashed potatoes. When she looked up at last, food clinging to her face, she looked like a chipmunk. “Is there more?”

            Bobby picked up a napkin, reached over and cleaned off her face. “I was thinkin’ you should save some room for peach cobbler, maybe some ice cream.”

            She clapped her hands. “I like peaches! They’re the yummiest ever!” She stretched out her arms. “Pick me up, Dean!”

            Dean obliged. She really wasn’t that heavy. “Need any help cleaning up, Bobby?”

            “You two go have some fun.”

            Dean tried, playing a few more upbeat songs and singing along, but a profound weight was settling in his gut; the sun was setting. They were stepping closer.

            They ate peach cobbler together, all three of them, and Chelsea painted stars on Dean’s hand with the melted leftovers of her ice cream while he tuned the guitar back up. She drew a star on Bobby’s cheek and one on her own forehead.

            Dean wanted to throw up.

            It was after dark when Bobby glanced out the window. “Y’know, out here where there ain’t any light pollution, you can see all the stars. Why don’t you two go take a look?”

            It was an effort just to lever himself off the couch; Dean carried Chelsea out onto the back porch and sat with his back to the twisted wrought-iron railing, watching the stars with his head leaned back.

            “Is Bobby your daddy?” Chelsea asked, her eyes tracing patterns and constellations that Dean couldn’t see.

            “Nah, he’s my friend, though.”

            “I don’t have a lot of friends. But I have a puppy. His name is Alfie. I bet he’s waiting for me to come home.”

            “Yeah?” Dean’s voice caught. “What kinda dog is it?”

            “I dunno. He’s cute.”

            Silence settled over them, and then Chelsea squeezed her small hands on Dean’s knees. “This was the best day ever.”

            He bumped his chin against the back of her head. “Hey, tomorrow’s gonna be even better.” She tipped a wide-eyed, incredulous glance his way, and Dean nodded. “I promise.”

            Bobby joined them with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. He set one next to Dean and handed the other to Chelsea. “Careful, that’s hot.”

            She took it, smiling. “Thank you!”

            Bobby sniffed gruffly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

            Chelsea watched him go, then squinted her eyes. “Dean? My legs feel funny.”

            The air seemed to shrink around his head. “Just drink the hot chocolate and I’ll take a look in a minute, all right?”

            “Okay.” She looked up at the stars again, drinking in tentative sips to avoiding burning her tongue. Dean rubbed his knuckles over her back, the public-speaking, last-breath-before-the-plunge feeling shaking his limbs and making his throat swell.

            Chelsea yawned, setting her mug aside and stretching herself across his lap. “Can I sleep in your bed tonight? I’m scared of the dark.”

            “Yeah, you got it.” Dean rasped.

            “You’re the best ever.”

            He laid his hand on her side, feeling each slow breath rushing in and out of her lungs. “’Night, kiddo.”

            He felt the exact moment her heart stopped under his hand.

            Dean thumped his head back against the railing, blinking away the unquenchable fire in his eyes, rolling his gaze sideways to stare into the darkness of the junkyard. His lungs shivered in air and expelled it again.

            Presently, Bobby reappeared, a blanket in his hands.

            “She died a happy, normal kid.” Bobby crouched and wrapped the blanket over Chelsea’s still body.

            “She shouldn’t’ve died at all, Bobby.”

            Bobby dipped his head. “You want me to—?”

            “I got her.”

            He left Bobby in the pool of porchlight; down on his knees in the backyard and scraping the ground with a stunted shovel, Dean felt himself digging into the fight, inside of himself. Into what it was, what it meant and what mattered, all that it stood for.

            This little girl was dead because of it.

            And Bobby was right; Sam couldn’t hold out forever. So what was he going to do the day he was scooping back the earth with his bare hands and laying Sam’s body to rest in a frozen grave?

            The thought came like a punch to the gut that made Dean regret the whispers from the Pits that had called him out from shelter in the first place.

            Right now, he wished he could put this life behind him.

 

-X-

 

            Bobby’s sleep that night was restless.

            The angelic face in his dreams haunted the corners of the room when he woke; powerful, aching regret suffused him. The thought of Dean digging a shallow grave alone outside only added to his weariness, until he was seething at Roy and cussing himself out all over again, getting out of bed; there would be no sleeping right now, not with the ghostly last laughter of a dead child hanging over his head.

            Bobby trudged downstairs, the familiar thorny prickle of wood splinters meeting his hand against the wall. He’d have to take a weekend out of the amassing of boring weekends, and sand the walls down. Again.

            The glimmer of dusky orange light surprised Bobby at the base of the stairs; he turned left, into the study, and found the small lamp on his desk turned on dimly, throwing pale fingers across the floor and up the laden bookshelves.

            Dean sat on the couch, bare-chested, his hands filthy and blood twisting in circlets around his fingers. His fingernails were chipped, bleeding from beneath. His shoulder was to Bobby, but from that particular angle Bobby could see the wetness of Dean’s cheeks, small rivers running through the days-old scruff on his face.

            “Past your bedtime, Dean.” Bobby said quietly.

            Dean didn’t make an effort to hide the tears on his face, and that alone was proof that whatever weight he was bearing had just become too great to handle. “Ah, I couldn’t sleep.” He dropped his head, staring at his hands.

            Bobby stepped toward him, then paused, unsure. He would be the first to admit that his interactive skills were a little on the disused side. But he’d promised to be here for Dean if he needed it, and here they were. “What’s on your mind?”

            Dean cleared his throat scratchily. “Think I’m ready to tell you about New York.”

            Bobby pulled up the chair from the desk, sinking into it. “I’m listening.”

            Dean took a deep breath, and stared down at his hands; he cleared his throat. Shifted his seat on the couch. The look on his face, Bobby could equate to a dog just about to have a bone removed from between its teeth: understanding, fundamentally, what needed to be done, but resisting all the same.

Bobby scratched the back of his neck. “You’re the one who wanted to open this can of worms, Dean.”

“Just gimmie a second, all right?” Dean snapped, pressing his fists to his forehead. He snuffed out a breath and let his eyes slide shut: “It started out when I was twelve. Y’know, after you helped us get on our feet out there. Mom kinda figured hiding in plain sight was our best bet. Right in the middle of a demonic city,” He stressed the ‘de’, like it was anti-something. De-stress. De-rail. De-monic, “’Cause that’s where all the jobs were. So we got this apartment, pretty cheap; I guess mom and dad split up the assets or whatever when we moved out, I dunno. Anyway, she had this job as a psychiatrist until I was seventeen. Business got pretty slow.” A slow, empty smile curled across his features. “When you live in a whole city of people backstabbing each other, no one really wants to be told about what part of their screwed up lives made them screwed up people. After five years on the job, the practice just shut down. Outta the blue. Mom showed up to work one day and there wasn’t anyone inside, the doors were locked up, that was it. Cut, dried, tied up with a bow on it.”

            “That’s how most businesses went out the door.” Bobby said sympathetically

            “Yeah, well, mom had a pretty rough run after that. She took odd jobs for six months, we ran outta rent,” His shoulders hunched, the motion like sliding away from an impending blow. “Lived off the streets for a couple weeks after that.”

            The news filled Bobby’s head with an onslaught of ideas and notions, none of them good, all of them extremely likely. “It never occurred to either of you to call me? Or, I know! How about _your dad_?”

            “Mom lost your number by that point.” Dean explained. “She knew you were passing monsters through. Same with my dad. Hell, I’m pretty sure she burned her bridges with him the night we moved out.” He clasped his hands, hanging his wrists on his knees. “Anyway, didn’t matter. The Harvelles took us in.”

            “Bill and Ellen?” Bobby felt the first inkling of comprehension, a faint, scattered realization of where this was going, somewhere down the road.

            “Yeah. Jo and I went to the same school from sixth grade on up.” He snorted. “Doesn’t really count. School. Most of the teachers stayed out to watch fights. Everyone just kinda horsed around and bailed when they felt like it. I always told my mom I was gettin’ good grades, but I don’t think I sat through a whole day of school after that little one-room shack in Lawrence when I was ten.”

“I’m assumin’ college was a bust?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Dean hedged. “That’s kinda part of the story.” He hesitated, and Bobby stayed quiet, letting him continue on his own terms. “Bill used to be a Hunter. Like my dad. He was training Jo in this loft across the street from their apartment, and I just kinda fell into it, y’know? Training, guns, knives, you name it. Bill was a genius, he kept me and Jo sharp.” He rubbed a hand absently over his scraped knuckles. “I was twenty-two the first time I saw a fight.”

And there it was, all of his suspicions confirmed; Dean’s intrinsic knowledge, the way he’d read that Shapeshifter in the Junction City fight before they’d set foot in the arena. Not inherent; learned. Maybe Dean had a knack for reading monsters, but he’d honed it in Pits on the streets of New York.

“We showed up at this college the first day it opened, and, uh, turns out it was a Pit.” Dean shrugged, cords of muscle moving under his skin. “I dunno, it’s like this fever that kinda takes over. Jo followed her dad this one night when she thought he was goin’ out for a beer, turns out he was a Handler, too. He was playing against these lower-grade demons—man, you should see New York, Bobby. The place is crawling with demons. Dozens of ’em.”

“Wait just a minute. Mary let you live with a _Handler_?” Bobby demanded incredulously.

“She didn’t know. Hell, she probably _still_ thinks they were a buncha saints.” Dean’s voice adopted a slight cutting edge. “Bill sorta took me and Jo under his wing, showed us the ropes on Pit fighting. We weren’t allowed to bet or anything, just watch him do his thing. But he musta sucked as bad as my dad, ’cause he was so far under he had demons stalkin’ the place.” He swung his head slightly in Bobby’s direction. “S’why they moved. Mom thought Bill got a job offer overseas, but he was just on the run. Couldn’t stay in the big city anymore.”

“Ellen know about this?”

Dean cleared his throat. “She knew about Bill, yeah. Didn’t find out me and Jo were involved until we, uh…” He scratched the back of his head absently. “Yeah, we tried to break into a League fight.”

            Bobby clapped a hand down on his knee, leaning forward in his chair. “You did _what_ , boy?”

            Dean slouched back against the couch, arms crossed, defensive, defiant. “What? We got a little curious, figured if we could handle the Pits, we could take a look at the Leagues, see what that was all about.”

            “And that’s how John came to be callin’ me about some Death Camp you’ve got hangin’ over your fool head?”

            Dean sniffed, looking away. “Yeah, the cops caught us sneaking in. Brought us back to the apartment and basically told our moms to keep a leash on us or they’d chuck us in the ringer.”

            “That ain’t a joke, Dean. Folks who go behind bars in big cities don’t turn up outside again.”

            “Yeah, well, mom kinda jumped on the chance to get us outta there and back in Lawrence. Couldn’t find jobs to save our lives, so it was sorta,” He held out both hands and clicked his tongue against his molars. “Rock and a hard place.”

            There was a spell of silence, Dean rubbing his hands on his jeans, shuffling off bits of dirt and grass onto the floor.

            “That all?” Bobby prompted. It was a sketchy outline at best.

            Dean nodded. “At this point? Yeah.”

            “Feel any better?”

            When Dean looked up from studying his knees, his eyes were wet again. “Not really. Nah.”

            “Gets easier.” Bobby said gruffly, getting to his feet. “You oughta get some sleep. God knows we could both use some decent shut-eye.”

            “I’m gonna stay up for a little bit, thanks.” Dean swiped his tongue across his bottom lip with a brief, forced smile.

            “Suit yourself.” Bobby turned the chair back toward the desk and started for the stairs, pausing in the doorway to look back. “What brought that on, Dean?”

            The silence was thoughtful, pronounced, before the quiet answer: “If a car falls on me, or, I dunno, I get shot by someone my dad owes money to…guess I just wanted somebody else to know.”

            It was classic, Bobby mused. The death of someone close by creating an instant rapport with one’s own mortality. “I got a little piece of advice for ya. You forget what life’s gonna tell you about what’s important, what matters. Family’s what matters.” Bobby rubbed at his bristly beard. “Dean, don’t drop this ball with Sam. With your daddy, either. Or with Mary. Every second we’re sucking air is another second in the future that we don’t got. So you make the most of it, y’hear me?”

            “I hear you.”

            “All right.” There was an awkward pause. “Good talk.”

            “Thanks, Bobby.”

And that sounded so sincere, there wasn’t an answer to be spoken.

 

-X-

 

Dean worked by lamplight, sliding the glass into the window frame and stepping back for an inspection. His reflection danced back to him, bruise-colored shadows around sleepless eyes. Every time he blinked, Chelsea’s face was there to greet him in the darkness of his eyelids. It was why he’d opted to go back to the Impala rather than trying to sleep. He didn’t feel better yet after having told Bobby about New York, maybe because he’d already told Sam, during their rock-tossing contests by the river. But Sam trusted him and leaned on him so completely that Dean had been left hanging in a way, wondering what Mary or John would say if they knew; telling Bobby was the closest he could get to that.

It hadn’t really changed that much, and the weight of Chelsea’s death was still there, knotted in with his anger toward Roy until he couldn’t pull the two apart.

He wished he could’ve taken his time burying her, made it a little fancier than her name carved on the swirled, blunted old lid from the Impala’s trunk. But life wasn’t exactly porcelain caskets and rose baskets anymore, and the only one grieving right now was him. So he did his best.

The shed door clattered open, and Dean looked up, surprised, as Bobby appeared in full work attire, closing out the wintery draft behind him.

“Hey.” Dean greeted. “Thought you went to bed an hour ago.”

“I oughta say the same. You said you were gettin’ some well-earned rest.”

“Yeah, well, my baby needs me.” Dean carded a hand back through his hair. “Keeps my mind off things, y’know? Besides, I just spilled, like, my life’s story to you. You think I’m just gonna go upstairs and cry myself to sleep?”

“That’d be a sight.” Bobby beckoned him. “As long as you got ants in your pants, we might as well repair the windshield.”

“Wait, doesn’t this go against your religious beliefs, or something?” Dean teased, following on Bobby’s heels. “Working after sunset?”

“It’s daylight somewhere.” Bobby grumped. “You gonna stand around lecturin’ me about how a man oughta sleep, or are you gonna quit jawin’ and gimmie a hand?”

Dean stopped. “Look, Bobby, what I said in there. All that crap about me and Jo, and what we did…you know that’s kinda private. Right?”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “But for the record, you can’t keep that story bottled up forever. Pick a side and stand on it, but quit livin’ a double-life where your momma thinks you’re a little angel and John’s got you pegged for some kinda hardass criminal. Comin’ clean might be the best bet you got.”

“Yeah, I’ll tell ’em. I’m just waiting for the right time.”

“Well, when that divine lightning strikes you, that’ll be a helluva show.”

Dean followed Bobby back to the Impala with the windshield glass between them, and felt the stitch in his chest easing by the smallest degree.

            That night bled into the next day, and that day into the next, and Dean was surprised to find that the flame of anger he’d been holding against John and the world in general banked lower as time went on. He worked the Impala with every drop of sweat and breath of his body, getting to know her like he knew his own skin, and watching her former glory emerge from the scrapheap eased the pain off of Chelsea’s crash-and-burn entrance into his life.

            She stayed ingrained in his dreams; but otherwise, she was a thought that Dean kept close to his chest, avoiding her grave like the plague. Something to keep him going, along with the thought of hunting Roy down and paying him back double for stealing Chelsea’s future from her.

            It wasn’t until the day Bobby stepped into the shed and announced, “We’re towin’ this girl home,” that Dean realized it was two days until his birthday.

            He scrambled out of the Impala’s front seat. “Are you serious?”

            “Been twenty-five days. You made it through Singer Boot Camp. Don’t get too rowdy celebratin’.”

            It wasn’t a celebration, not exactly. There was a slow, drawn-out sense of closure to his three-week stay, and the feeling of guilt at leaving Bobby stranded and alone again. There was a deeper part of him, too, a selfish part that didn’t want to lose the confidant he’d found in Bobby. Details had slid out as they worked tirelessly over the car, bits and pieces of Dean’s life with the Harvelles: how he remembered Jo’s laugh, the way Ellen and Mary could put a pie together, the taste of Bill’s knuckles splitting his cheek. Bobby never broached it and Dean never admitted it, but he was acutely aware of how much he’d used Bill to replace John.

            The Pits of New York felt closer, making their appearances in his dreams as well, in bright vivid splatters.

            “Dean! You hearin’ me?” Bobby’s voice cut suddenly into his reverie. “Last night on the ranch. Any special requests?”

            “Yeah.” Dean grinned. “Let’s get wasted.”

            They pushed the Impala out in front of the shed and watched the sun go down with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, sitting on the buffed, restored hood, and in spite of a few chips that Dean had decided to leave in place, “Because scars are badass”, the car was as good as new.

            “You better remember every damn thing I taught you this month,” Bobby warned, taking a healthy hit off the bottle.

            “Oh, yeah. The bare necessities of life. I’m golden.” Dean cracked, following Bobby’s lead and letting the alcohol roar its way down his throat. He coughed. “No, but, seriously, Bobby, thanks. I know I was a pain in your ass—”

            “Ain’t that the truth?”

            “You didn’t have to take me on.” Dean finished. “But you did.”

            Bobby wagged his head dismissively. “Feelin’ better yet?”

            “Could just be the booze, but yeah. I think I’m good. I’m really good.” Dean said, and for once he believed himself. The same problems would still be waiting for him back in Lawrence, but at least he had his head screwed on straight about a few things. Where he stood with Sam, for one thing; his opinion on John, for another. And sooner or later he’d have to come clean with Mary, he’d resolved to do that, too.

            “You gonna tell Sam you didn’t miss a single fight thanks to that crappy radio connection?”

            “Ah, it doesn’t matter if I heard him fight. He still won.”

            “What’s that put him up to by now? Twenty wins under the belt?”

            “Twenty-six.” Dean said, not even bothering to disguise the pride in his voice.

            “Kid’s got a gift, even John can’t say otherwise.”

            Dean leaned back against the sleek, restored windshield. “Yep.”

            “In the mornin’, we’ll give this old girl a tune-up, make sure everything’s in shape and I’ll tow her back to Kansas. Don’t got the gas to have you drive her home.”

            “Nah, I wouldn’t want to, anyways. That’s dad’s call.”

            Dean pretended not to notice the look of surprise Bobby turned on him. It wasn’t that he was turning into the perfect son; but maybe picking fights around every corner wasn’t helping things in the long run. After all, they had bigger things to worry about.

            Like demons.

            “You lookin’ forward to it?” Bobby asked suddenly, and Dean picked his head up.

            “To, what? Going back?” Bobby nodded, and Dean tucked one arm behind his head. “Hey, it’s been fun. Not exactly what I expected out here. But, yeah, I’m ready to head home.”

            _Ready_ , though, didn’t really cover it.

            He was just homesick in general.

 

-X-

 

            They pulled up to the house well after midnight on Dean’s birthday, and there wasn’t any movement inside the house.  

            Dean felt a jab of disappointment that no one was waiting up for him, but he couldn’t exactly take the time to complain about it when Bobby needed his help with the Impala. They unhooked her from Bobby’s tow truck in record time, then embraced in the muffled glare of the taillights.

            “Take care of yourself, Bobby.” Dean fisted one hand in the back of Bobby’s faithful brown vest; it smelled like chemicals, leather and oil. The same smell clung to Dean’s skin by now, too.

            “Yep. You keep an eye on your family, Dean.” Bobby stepped back and dropped something into Dean’s hand, a small paper sack. “That’s for Sam. Tell him it’s from me and that he’ll figure out a use for it if he really thinks it through.”

            “Uh, yeah, okay.” Dean held the bag up, trying to catch a glimpse of what was inside with the light shining through the far side, and Bobby slapped the back of his head.

            “No hints, idjit. Like I said, that’s for Sam.”

            Dean smiled and stepped out of reach. “All right, all right, I got it. Secret Santa mission.” He paused, feeling that recurring wellspring of sadness in knowing that Bobby would be going back to an empty house and a grave in his backyard. “Hey, I might take a couple months off this summer, maybe bring Sam around and help you out. Sorta inventory the junk in your house and stuff.”

            Bobby’s withering glance told Dean not to push the subject. “I appreciate the offer. And you know I’ll be up in the books all hours of the night, tryin’ to parse out what Sam is. It’s just takin’ some time.”

            “Good luck with that.” Dean snorted. “Thanks for everything, Bobby.”

            “You did most of the work.” Bobby slung his bulk in behind the steering wheel of the tow truck. “See you around, kid.”

            “See ya.”

            Bobby pulled out and Dean watched him go, moving to shut the gate behind the truck. He waited until it disappeared back up the road they’d just traveled before he headed for the porch, glossing his hand over the Impala in passing. She had a few blemishes, but she still outshone his truck, with Bill Harvelle’s initials catching shadows on the bumper. The truck Dean had bought off of him with money he’d earned betting on a backstreet fight, not even a Pit fight, because Bill had refused to just give it to him outright. He’d wanted Dean to earn it for himself.

            Bone-tired from the drive and the long days of work beforehand, Dean dragged his way through the front door, toeing his boots off beside the couch before it really sank in that, after almost a month, the place still looked and smelled the same. It smelled like home.

            Dean glanced at the couch and a startled spasm rooted him to the welcome mat; John was awake, propped against the arm of the couch, his temple resting against the palm of his hand, fingers buried in his hair. There were shadows beneath shadows under his eyes, and Dean wondered how long John had been sitting up, watching out the window for him.

            He nodded to Dean and said, quietly, “Welcome back.” It held flavors of a question, _Is everything okay?_ , and something Dean hadn’t expected, something that was so evident in John’s eyes that it stopped Dean cold: _It’s good to have you home_.

            “Thanks.” _It’s good to be home_. “Where’s mom?”

            “She fell asleep waiting up for you. You might wanna let her know you’re back.”

            “I’m on it.” Dean turned toward the stairs.

            “Dean.” John’s tone invited him to linger. “The Impala looks good. You did good out there, son.”

            Dean smiled lazily. “Hey, tell Bobby. I just did the legwork.” He headed upstairs, hearing John snort a chuckle behind him.

            Mary was asleep when Dean padded into her room in his socks, but she woke up at the touch of his hand on her back, picking her head up drowsily. “Dean? Is that you?”

            “Last time I checked.” Dean grinned, a white flash in the darkness. Mary draped an arm around his neck and pulled him down with his forehead against her temple.

            “I missed you.” She kissed his dirty hair. “You need a shower.”

            “I hear that a lot.” Dean laughed, ducking her hold. “I gotta sleep first, mom. I’m friggin’ dead on my feet.”

            “I can hear that in your voice.” Mary turned her face into the pillow. “We’ll have pie for breakfast. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

            By the time Dean managed a quiet, “Thanks,” Mary was already asleep again.

            He made a quick detour to the guest room to check on Sam, and felt the first tinges of uneasiness when he realized Sam wasn’t in his usual spot, curled up asleep on the floor. The brief, irritated thought crossed his mind that John might’ve relegated Sam back to the shed without Dean around to watch his back, but he figured Sam would’ve come out to meet him and Bobby, in that case. Pushing his way into his own bedroom, Dean’s mind cycled through the possibilities.

            And that was where he found him.

            Sam was sprawled face-down on Dean’s bed, his lanky legs hanging off the too-short mattress, the blanket lopsided around his hips. Sam, who hated beds, avoided them like the plague even when he was sick; asleep in Dean’s.

            A tidal wave of amusement and compassion swayed Dean’s exhausted body. He sank down on the edge of the bed, watching Sam’s labored, twitchy breathing as he dreamed. Dean thought of Chelsea, an innocent victim, and saw her reflection in Sam as he curled an arm under Dean’s pillow, hauling it tighter against the side of his face. Dean wondered if comfort was the whole reason Sam had ended up in his bed in the first place; maybe someone had been missing him after all.

            That was when it hit him, a hard, vulnerable awareness that he’d missed Sam, too. That he’d _really_ missed him, not as a sparring partner or as a distraction in training, but as a friend, as someone he trusted in and depended on. He’d missed the constant that Sam had been in his life for four months before the vacation at Bobby’s.

            Not even fully aware of what he was doing, Dean smoothed Sam’s chestnut-brown hair against the nape of his neck. “Heya, Sammy. I’m home.”

            Sam’s only response was to curl onto his side against Dean, a last piece of home falling back into place.

            Dean didn’t mind taking the floor.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Thirteen: Birthdays and Bare Rafters

 

            The mood was different in the morning.

            John felt it the moment he opened his eyes; the simplicity of knowing Dean was back lifted a sort of pall that had been hanging over the house since New Year’s. With the constraining sling still binding his fractured arm to his chest, John pushed himself off the couch and into a luxurious stretch, loosening up and blinking when he saw Mary treading her way soundlessly down the stairs.

            She held a finger to her lips. “The boys are still asleep.”

            John nodded, following her into the kitchen where they could talk without being overheard; he was less put-off and more resigned by the way Mary grouped Dean and Sam together. “It’s Dean’s twenty-fifth today.”

            “You remembered.” Mary’s tone wasn’t accusatory or surprised, neutral as she turned to face him, leaning her hands on the edge of the sink behind her.

            “I never forgot.” John said.

            There was an empty chasm, the yawning question between them that begged an explanation for no contact, no letters, no phone calls for twelve birthdays.

            Mary cleared her throat in two quick beats. “I’ll take Dean to the mini-mart to pick up some pie for breakfast.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes shone with so much excitement John almost felt it reaching out and beckoning him in.

            “You look happy,” He said, simply, and some of the softness traveled from Mary’s voice to her eyes.

            “Dean and I haven’t been apart since we left Lawrence. It was a little bit of an eye-opening experience for me.”

            John chuckled. “S’that why I had my head crammed under the sink for a whole weekend, doing your dirty-work? You needed a distraction, so you put me on the grindstone?”

            Mary shrugged with delicate nonchalance. “Maybe I just wanted to see your ass from that angle.”

            The humor of the situation cut off like a flipped switch, both of them gaping at the other. They hadn’t _bantered_ , hadn’t _flirted_ in so long that John had forgotten exactly how that sort of talk rolled off the tongue.

            Mary blushed a furious, and not unattractive, shade of pink. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

            John scrambled to recover the easygoing mood. “I’m an ass from every angle.”

            A surprised laugh escaped her, and it was almost a reward.

            Footsteps drummed overhead, and John remembered the thing he hadn’t missed: Dean interrupting these kinds of conversations.

            Dean slid around the corner, almost hitting the wall, and dropped an arm over Mary’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Morning!”

            “Well, somebody’s cheerful.” Mary commented.

            Pulling away, Dean sauntered to the fridge, tugging it open before reality caught up to him: he was back in a house with no electricity and no working fridge. He shut the door. “I slept in. I feel awesome.”

            “Dean, it’s nine in the morning. How is this _sleeping in_?” John asked.

            “Oh, man, spend a couple weeks with Bobby and _sleep_ is a gameshow prize.”

            John chuckled. “Enjoy it while it lasts. Your mother’s desperate to get this house in working order. Last weekend, we were cleaning the attic.”

            “Yeah?” Dean arched an eyebrow. “Find any dead bodies up there?”

            “Just a lot of asbestos and crawl-spaces.” Mary said. “I thought we were all going to contract a parasite. We were coughing black for days.”

            Dean winced sympathetically. “I hear ya. I haven’t felt clean since I left. It’s like I got this layer of grime on me that I can’t scrub off.”

            “Well, give it your best shot.” Mary gave the ends of his hair a tug. “Because you and I have a trip to the mini-mart in our future.”

            Dean’s eyes lit up, a Christmas tree glow. “Pie?” Mary nodded. “Dude. _Yes_.” He pointed to her. “Shower. I’m on it.” He was almost back through the doorway when he stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Hey, maybe we should all go together. I bet dad’s dyin’ to take baby for a spin.”

            The generosity of the offer left John stumped. Dean stayed planted, waiting, until John found his way around to saying, “Yeah, Deano. Sounds good.”

            Dean nodded and disappeared upstairs.

            John and Mary exchanged wide-eyed glances.

            “What did Bobby—?” Mary began.

            “The man’s a voodoo priest.” John held up his good hand. “That’s all I’ve got to say.” Despite the humor of the response, he found himself wondering if Bobby really had used black-magic on their son.

             The shower hissed to life over their heads, and Mary sat at the table, holding her hair away from her temples. “I didn’t even buy him a present.”

            “I don’t think Dean cares.” John reassured her. “He’s back home. That’s all that matters.” He didn’t add that a twenty-five-year-old who was learning to be a Handler didn’t exactly need any of the pointless trinkets you could find outside of a big city.

            Mary looked up, abandoning her studious observation of the scuffed table. “When’s your next fight?”

            “In a week.” John said. “Denver.”

            “And you haven’t crossed paths with the demon that hit you?”

            John shook his head. “I keep telling myself he must not’ve cared about Sam that much, if he hasn’t shown his face since Tulsa. But—”

            “You know that’s a lie.” Mary concluded. “They’re planning something.”

            An awful, ugly uneasy thing reared its near-dormant head, gliding its way in to find a home, curled around John’s middle. “Feels like it.”

            “Does Sam know?” Mary asked, and John looked away. “Let me rephrase that: does Sam talk about it?”

            “Not to me. But it’s eating at him, I can tell. He’s been asking me nonstop when Dean would be home.” He paused, the next question sliding out like a punch from between his teeth. “You saw him sleeping in—?”

            “Mmm-hmm.” Mary balanced her chin on the palm of her hand. “It’s a comfort issue. Sam draws comfort from Dean being close. I think he’s been taking that bed for a while. Maybe since Dean left.”

            John pillowed his forehead against his fingertips, his elbow propped on the table. “I can’t win, can I?”

            “Maybe you should pick a different battle, John.” Mary suggested, and then she changed the subject. “I wonder if Dean will still want to go with you. To Denver.”

            “We’ll see. Since Bobby worked a body-snatch on him, he may prefer to stay here and bake cookies with you.”

            “The oven doesn’t work.”

            “I was trying to joke, Mary.”

            The tinny report of the shower cut off abruptly, followed by the double thump of feet hopping across the floor. Dean reappeared in the kitchen doorway several minutes later, damp and with flushed skin from the heat of the water. He hurried to fill a glass at the sink and downed it in two swallows, banging it down on the counter.

            “I am velvety smooth.” He announced, bringing a smile to Mary’s face and eliciting an eye-roll from John. “And I’m starving.”

            John wanted to voice the suggestion that they let Sam sleep and just bring food back for him, but that was nullified by the sound of feet shuffling down the stairs. Sam came in yawning, his hair disheveled with sleep and the heel of his hand mashing his eye.

            “Hey, I thought I heard—” He cut off suddenly, coming wide-awake, staring at Dean standing by the sink. The look of intensity on his face made it seem like he was facing a specter he couldn’t trust to be real.

            “I’m back,” Dean said, finally, when the silence waxed into something almost uncomfortable.

            Sam crossed the kitchen in one massive stride and crowded Dean back against the counter, cinching a grip on him and crushing Dean, damp hair and all, into a hug; the fierce, determined expression never left Sam’s face.

            The discomfort ratcheted up for John, then banked into a sharp sense of wary curiosity as, after a few frozen seconds, Dean looped an arm around Sam’s back, holding him steady and safe. John saw Dean’s lips form the caustic words, “ _You’re such a girl_ ,” but his eyes betrayed a kind of reckless, haphazard vulnerability that made John want to step between his son and some kind of agony he didn’t understand.

            Dean shifted his arm tighter around Sam’s shoulders and his face scrunched, eyes squeezing shut, his hand conforming itself to the back of Sam’s shoulder.

            And it was the strangest feeling, the blankest, most empty he’d ever known, as John realized that he and Mary no longer existed in this moment. They were adrift souls allowed a chance to look inside something that wasn’t theirs to hold.

            After several seconds, Dean finally pushed Sam out to arm’s length, looking him over critically. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

            “What?” Sam seemed dumbfounded, his voice breathless with happiness. “Oh. Yeah. I mean, yeah. I’m great.” He tilted his head slightly. “You came home.”

            John and Mary exchanged a long glance, twenty-five nights of restlessness and Sam’s distant expressions hanging between them; Sam sitting on the front porch, staring at the dustless, cold road leading out away from the gate during long stretches of unoccupied daylight. Waiting. Always.

            “’Course I came home.” Dean slapped Sam on the shoulder. “I mean, yeah, Bobby’s great, he’s practically family. But I missed this place. Bobby’s house kinda smells like oil and ass.”

            “Language.” Mary said reflexively. “Who’s hungry?”

            And then they were stepping out onto the frosty lawn, and John was back behind the wheel of the Impala for the first time in a month, and finding it hard to believe how good she looked. Buffed until she shined, his oldest and most faithful companion bearing a few scrapes from the accident, scars like medals of honor.

            “Not bad, Deano.” John ran his hand over the dash, the smoothness of the upholstery welcoming his touch. “How much of this did you do yourself?”

            “I wasn’t keepin’ track.” Dean replied easily from his perch in the backseat. “We kinda split it down the middle.”

            “John?” Mary prompted. “We have mouths to feed.”

            John glanced at her and felt the scene of perfection complete; with her arm on the windowsill and her hair falling in waves over her back and one shoulder, Mary was the picture of everything he’d wanted and missed for twelve years, back in the front seat beside him.

            “Yep,” His voice was gruff as he put the car into reverse. The restored engine gunned to life, and he turned her on a dime, taking to the open road.

            In the backseat, Sam was talking a mile a minute, filling Dean in on fights and the renovation of the house. John didn’t think Sam paused for more than one breath in between sentences, with skittering glimpses on the corners of John’s vision as Sam gestured broadly with his hands, expounding on the scenes of Oakland’s Pit.

            John caught Dean’s eye in the rearview mirror, and Dean flipped him a slightly arrogant, bright grin before he turned his attention back to Sam.

            Mary pulled her legs up onto the seat, stretching out, the toes of her winter boots grazing his knee. For the first time in years, John felt so full he thought it would strangle the life out of him.

            They were the only ones in the mini-mart when they arrived, and Dean seemed to take advantage of that, inviting Sam with a cocky curl of his hand for the first round of Jujutsu, right in the middle of the canned goods aisle. John had to snag them by their collars to keep them from going after each other.

            “You aren’t wolves,” He reminded them, and then regretted it instantly as some kind of door slammed shut on the happiness in Dean’s eyes. He fell back with a small shrug, wandering toward one of the shelves at the end of the row. With a confused glance John and Mary’s way, Sam followed him, falling in close, his shoulder brushing Dean’s.

            “Something happened,” Mary’s voice was soft with worry as she watched Dean swing a glance toward Sam. “While he was at Bobby’s. Something changed him.”

            John’s mind raced itself back to the roadside in California. “Maybe we’re all changin’, Mare.”

            She looked up to him, one studious sweep of the eyes. “Let’s just hope it’s for the better, hm?” She brushed his jaw with the back of two fingers before joining Sam and Dean further down the aisle.

            The lingering touch both burned like flame and chilled him; John found himself wishing that the sense of lighthearted togetherness from Dean’s return could last well beyond the event itself. But there was an unhappy, uneasy part of him that was just waiting for the next big fight.

Things in the Winchester household were never peaceful for long.

 

-X-

 

They circled each other on the grassy slope behind the house, bare feet sliding across half-frozen ground.

The pie was untouched on the kitchen table and Dean couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate on the fact the he was now twenty-five and the Impala was fixed and things were on a highwire of some kind of decent with his family.

So here they were, in the cold quiet of the empty world behind their house, Sam and Dean with their cold-raw feet shifting, sliding, circling. Reading each other for the smallest signs of intent, and Dean was surprised that after almost a month apart, he could read Sam like they hadn’t missed a day of training.

They were supposed to be on second-tier, starting weeks before now. But today wasn’t a time for intentional, practiced moves.

Today was pure, simple sparring.

Sam still had tricks, things Dean didn’t bank on; they came at each other with Sam going low, sweeping Dean’s legs and whirling up for an elbow to the chest that winded him. But when his brain recovered, caught up, Dean was able to grapple Sam around the waist and take him down on his back.

He sprang away almost as fast, letting Sam up, starting the circle again with their breaths a bit more staggered by degrees.

Sam feinted and came in with a punch that Dean easily deflected off his upraised arm, but the second blow that followed clipped his ear, tilting his world as he swayed out of reach.

“What happened?” Sam puffed.

“Nothing happened, Sam.” Dean managed to slip a hit past Sam’s guard, the punch knocking the air in an audible gust from Sam’s lungs. He doubled over and Dean managed to get a grip on the back of his neck, aiming a kick for Sam’s side that was met with a shove of hands and Sam breaking his hold, stepping back with one hand guarding his chest as he dragged in air.

“That’s crap, Dean, I can see right through it. Talk to me.”

“You wish.” Dean plowed back in, coming up with his hands curled slightly, dodging his weight from foot to foot, looking for a break; Sam found his stance and moved seamlessly, shadowing Dean’s footwork to a science. They fell back to circling.

Dean came in first this time, sliding one leg in behind both of Sam’s, going hip-to-hip with him, grabbing his arm to twist it behind his back. Sam moved with him, again, spinning around behind Dean, his arm slipping loose from Dean’s grip as he put him in a chokehold. It wasn’t painful, nowhere near the tightness that would put him under, but Dean’s instincts kicked in regardless. He elbowed Sam in the face, busting his lip, fumbling free and spinning.

They pulled their punches by a margin, never wanting to hurt the other, weaving the things they couldn’t say into glancing blows. _I fought without you_ , mingling with, _Chelsea_ , and, _Dad’s a Hunter before a Handler_ , and _Faceless_. Dean tried to sweep Sam’s legs, somehow ended up back-to-back with him as Sam evaded, and with a smirk Dean poured in, _I missed you_ , yanking a handful of Sam’s hair before he grabbed him and tried to flip him onto the ground.

Sam balked out of it, closing the distance between them for a punch that Dean caught with both hands. Chest-to-chest, their faces inches apart, Dean felt Sam’s breath ruffling his hair. Green eyes crossed hazel.

Sam hooked Dean’s legs out from under him and put him flat on his back, pinning his whole weight on Dean’s chest and digging his knee into the artery on Dean’s inner thigh. Sweat ran down Sam’s arm, his fist, with the long sleeves under his t-shirt rucked up to the elbow, trails of grime and grass-stains and dampness wrapping circles around the healing _Winchester_ scar on Sam’s arm.

Dean planted his knee into Sam’s ribs and bucked him off, Sam rolling into the grass beside Dean, flat on his back.

Gasping for breath, they sprawled out, limbs bent, chests heaving to catch the sun and the wind and the sky. Dean’s body burned with exertion that was so different from the repetitive physical motions of repairing the Impala; his muscles had forgotten some of the finer details of how it felt to move through the patterns of sparring.

After a few minutes, Sam folded his hands on his chest, turning his head to the side. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

Marginally calmer, without the feeling of Chelsea’s death snapping at his heels, Dean tucked one arm behind his head. “Nah.”

            Sam snuffed a laugh, “Right,” and rocked his head back again, gazing up. “Well, whenever you’re ready to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

            “Under my feet, being a pain in the ass,” Dean tossed back. When Sam laughed, more genuinely this time, Dean managed a half-smile. “Thanks.”

            “Anytime.” Sam shifted his hips, finding a more comfortable position on the ground. “We’re more than halfway through the Prelims, Dean.”

            “Yup. I noticed.”

            Sam linked one arm behind his head, mirroring Dean’s posture in an almost unconscious movement. “You still think we can make it?”

            “To the Leagues? Anything’s possible, I guess.”

            “But, to actually _do_ that…Dean, no human has ever actually gotten that far. They always fall out before the last fight.”

            “What about Gordon Walker, huh? He’s on his last round.”

            “I dunno, I never saw him in Oakland or anywhere else after you left. John thinks he’s training his vampire, getting her ready.”

            “Well, he’s got the money. Bastard can afford to take his time and train her up before his next fight,” Dean sniffed. “Part of me kinda hopes he makes it, just so he can get his ass handed to him by a demon.”

            “Dean.”

            “What? The guy’s dangerous, Sam.”

            “I hear you, I just…” Sam broke off for a few seconds. “You don’t know what it’s like out there. The Leagues are scary as hell, man.”

            “Well, that’s kinda where we’re heading.”

            There was a long, fraught silence. “I know.” Sam dipped his chin, looking down. “This is different. What we’re doing. It’s not like Gordon, he’s just in it for the money. Right? Or, fame, or power, or whatever.”

            “So, what about you, huh?” Dean asked lazily. “What’s Sammy fighting for?”

            Sam’s cheek dimpled on one side and he hauled himself up onto one elbow. “So, uh,” He cleared his throat. “I saw that paper bag you left in the bedroom.”

            Dean let the change in subject slide. “What, the one from Bobby?”

            Sam nodded. “It’s something we talked about before you left. I’m…kinda surprised he remembered, to be honest.”

            “What is it, a pipe bomb?”

            Sam looked at him cock-eyed. “You’re weird.” He reached into his back pocket and fished something out, weighing it in his palm before he handed it over. “It’s not exactly…practical, I just,” He dropped his hand. “I just felt like, after Christmas, y’know, and the way you saved my life in the first place…I guessed I wanted to say, thanks.”

            “You puttin’ your life on the line in the Pits sorta balances things out.” Dean took the offering from Sam anyway, letting the cord slide down and the flat silver rectangle on the end swing free. “What is this?”

            “Dogtag.” Sam gestured vaguely. “It’s Latin: _Non Timebo Mala_. It means _I will fear no evil_.”

Dean weighed the substantial metal in his hands. “Bobby gave this to you? It looks like it’s fifty years old, at least. He could sell this thing.”

            Sam shrugged. “I just…asked him for something he thought you’d like.”

            Dean slipped the black leather cord over his neck, the dog tag settling against his chest. “Thanks, Sammy.”

            “Happy birthday, Dean.”

            The fact that it was his birthday registered all over again, with a sense of ease that hadn’t been there since the mini-mart. Dean flipped onto his knees, then to his feet, clapping a hand on Sam’s forearm and pulling him up as well. “C’mon, let’s get some food. I dunno about you, but I’m starving.”

            A few flurries of snow whirled across the yard as they crossed it, shoving shoulders on their way up the porch steps and piling through the door.

            John was sitting on the couch, head tipped back, eyes closed; flames whistled and lapped through the fireplace. The apple pie they’d bought was dominating the coffee table, the cratered crust letting loose the sweet aroma of brown sugar. Dean’s mouth started watering.

            “Hey, mom!” Dean called.

            “Don’t yell through the house, Dean,” John cracked an eye open, then picked his head up. The glint of the dogtag in the folds of his hoodie threw a stripe of sherbet-orange across John’s face. “Where’d you get that?”

            “I gave it to him, sir.” Sam said. “Bobby found it for me.”

            John nodded, sitting forward as Mary descended the stairs, a taped-shut cardboard box in her hands.

            Dean groaned. “Aw, mom, tell me that’s not—”

            “Yes, this is a present, and, yes, you are going to grin and bear it.” Mary pointed to the couch. “Sit.”

            Dean sat, giving John his space, and Sam flopped unceremoniously onto the rug beside the table, putting his chin down on it.

            “Sam,” John said, warningly, and Sam straightened up.

            John wasn’t yelling, though, and it tipped Dean off that maybe there’d been some progress on that front while he was away.

            Mary perched on the arm of the couch next to Dean and set the box on his knees. Dean peeled the tape back and flipped it open, pulling out a bottle of hair gel, a package of Poptarts and, buried under a thin layer of tattered tissues, an un-inflated football.

            Dean hauled it out with a grin. “ _Sweet_.”

            “The first time you throw that in the house, I’ll beat you black and blue. Hear me?” John said, but there wasn’t any fervor behind the threat.

            “I hear ya.” Dean slung an arm around Mary’s waist in a sideways hug, tipping his head against her side. “Thanks, mom.”         

            “Happy birthday, Dean.” Mary slid off the arm of the couch and knelt next to the table. “Who wants pie?”

            Dean scooted closer. “Hey, you know I’m game.”

            John cleared his throat. “Actually, I need to borrow you for a minute, Dean.” He stood, motioning with his head. “The pie’ll still be here when you get back.”

            “It’s gonna get cold,” Dean complained.

            “It’s already cold.”

            Sam nodded encouragingly, and Dean gave in.

            The upstairs was quiet except for the breathy gusts of wind smoothing their way across the windows. Hands stuffed in his pockets, Dean followed John to the master bedroom; it smelled like Mary, looked like she lived there, with her pillow on the bed and her quilt draped halfway on the floor. Dean leaned his shoulder against the door and watched as John made his way to the dresser, pulling the top drawer open and rooting around inside.

            “So? What? Did you bring me up here for another lecture?” Dean punctuated the question with a laugh, trying to blunt the edges of it.

            “I’m tired of fightin’ with you, Dean.” John didn’t turn around to face him, and maybe that was what made the statement itself seem surreal.

            “Dad, all we _do_ is fight,” Dean pointed out.

            “Exactly. Y’know, most of the time I’m not even sure why we’re fighting. It’s like we’re lookin’ for every little thing.” He closed his hand around something in the drawer, bringing it out with a chatter of metal on metal.

            “Yeah, well, a lotta crap’s gone down.”

            “Too much crap,” John agreed.

            There was a bout of awkward silence.

            “So, you brought me upstairs for a heart-to-heart?” Dean ventured.

            “No, I brought you up here for this.” John clapped something against Dean’s chest on his way toward the door. “Figured you’d like the set, since I gave Bobby that one you’re wearing twenty years ago.”

            Dean caught the flash of silver before it fell to the floor in absence of John’s hand, a similar weight to the one strung around his neck. Dean stared down at the Marine Corps dogtag in his hand, the starch engraving of _Semper Fi_ standing out on the tarnished background.

            “Always faithful.” Dean murmured; he’d seen John wear the tag for years before it had vanished into the top drawer of the dresser, a reminder of better days, the few weeks John had spent in the Marine Corps until it had disbanded.

            Dean clenched his fist around the dogtag and thumped it against his forehead, sliding his eyes shut.

            The door eased open on well-oiled hinges. “Dean, we’re waiting,” Mary announced. And then, much more quietly when she noticed his rigid stance, “Sweetheart?”

            “Coming.” Dean slipped the second chain over his head and followed Mary back downstairs, the skittering of the two dogtags together feeling like a collective heartbeat over his.

 

-X-

 

            Dean couldn’t sleep.

            He wasn’t sure if it was the absence of the fan that had been running in his room at Bobby’s, if it was his botched sleeping schedule or just too many thoughts crowding his mind, but when he rolled over and checked the clock on the floor to see the dying glow reflecting three in the morning, frustration made him feel almost desperate. He _hated_ insomnia.

            Rolling out of bed, he yanked on his jeans and slid his jacket on.

            The door of the guest bedroom was closed; Dean knocked quietly, waited a few seconds, then opened it anyway.

            Sam was crashed out on his back, a thin stream of saliva trickling from the corner of open mouth. Dean grinned and toed the door shut behind him, moving to Sam’s bedside and grabbing his shoulder, giving it a shake.

            “Sam. _Sammy._ Hey. _Drooler_.” Dean pressed a flat hand on Sam’s chest and shoved down, hard, jolting him into the mattress.

            “What, what?” Sam floundered upright, blinking in the dim moonlight pouring through the window over his head. “Dean, what?”

            “Surprise.” Dean grabbed Sam’s folded jeans off the three-legged chair and tossed them to him. “C’mon, get dressed. Let’s go train or something.”

            “What time is it?” Sam yawned, sliding his jeans on.

            “Three in the morning. S’matter, tough stuff? Too early?”

            “No, it’s fine.” Sam didn’t rise to the bait. “Is everything okay?”

            “Can’t sleep.” Dean said. “I feel like my skin’s crawling or the walls are closing in or something.”

            “Okay.” Sam nodded. “We could always start tier two.”

            Dean snapped his fingers and pointed to Sam. “That’s the kinda talk a man likes to hear. Let’s move.”

            They slipped out the front door and ran across the moonlit lawn to the barn, Dean shoving the doors in with a roll of muscle from his forearms to his shoulders. Bright ashy light filtered in through the windows and their breaths puffed with the straw dust around them.

            Dean clumped down to the indent in the floor and turned to face Sam, still at the top of the steps. “What’s the hold up, dude? You wanna train, or not?”

            Sam was stiff, immobile, his eyes sliding up toward the rafters. Dean followed Sam’s gaze and heard a distant, jittery, nails-on-chalkboard rattle that set his teeth on edge, and it took him a second to understand _why_.

            The punching bag was gone; the chain that had held it up for decades, however, remained intact, rusted and bangling around in the breeze, creating that wind-chime echo that resembled the sound of rattling keys.

            “Aw, crap, crap, _crap_ ,” Dean cussed under his breath, leaping back up the steps and stopping abreast of Sam. “Sam, listen to me—listen up! That’s nothing, all right, it doesn’t matter. Look at me. Sam!”

            Sam’s eyes were pinned to the rafters, white-water fear spilling through his gaze. Dean cocked a look over his shoulder toward the chain, wondering if he’d be able to climb that high and cut it loose before Sam lost his composure completely.

            Dean gripped Sam’s shoulders instead. “Hey! Eyes on me!”

            Sam’s focus traveled to Dean for a split second, then reverted, internalizing.

            “Son of a bitch!” Dean slung an arm around Sam’s chest and bundled him backwards, out onto the lawn, where he threw him down and crouched over him. “Snap out of it, Sam, come on!”

            It was another minute or more before clarity returned to Sam’s vision. He blinked, forehead furrowing, nose scrunching. “ _Dean_?”

            Dean couldn’t manage a smile. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

            Sam scrambled to sit up, contrition overtaking his gaze. “Sorry. I didn’t…that sound just kind of…”

            “Froze you up?” Dean suggested, and Sam nodded sheepishly. “Sam. Dude, you gotta get your head around that.”

            “It’s not like I can control it, Dean. I just hear it and I—”

            “Wig out. You panic, Sam. You think something’s gonna get its hands on you?”

            Sam shrugged, plucking at the grass with his long fingers.

            “Hey! Look at me!” Dean snapped, and Sam raised his eyes reluctantly. “Inside of the Pit, outside of the Pit, I’ve still got your back. Right?”

            Sam managed the world’s smallest smile before he went back to studying the grass. “Dean, I’m scared, man. With what’s coming? Azazel’s not gonna stop. If he hurts John, if he hurts Mary…if he goes after _you_ …”

            “I’m not gonna let some ass-hat demon get the jump on me, Sam. C’mon, gimmie a little credit, here.” Dean reached up and smacked Sam on the back of the head. “Pull it together, and let’s work on the second tier. All right?”

            Sam rubbed his neck, then nodded. “Outside the barn?”

            “Yeah, outside the barn.” Weighing the cold against Sam’s fear, Dean decided it was worth it to take their chances with frostbite.

            “Dean?” Sam stretched, loosening his muscles, shaking off the fear.

            “Yeah, Sammy.”

            “I don’t…I don’t think I have a birthday. I mean. I do. I just…I don’t remember when it is.”

            “Then we’re gonna make one up.” Dean fell back a few steps. “All right, first tier was Savate. Second tier’s Jujutsu. This is where you’re really gonna kick ass. This one’s all that slippery crap you’re good at. Dodging and getting people into holds.”

            “Not people. Monsters.” Sam reminded him.

            “Eh. Either way, this is gonna help.” Dean held up one hand. “Five arts. One style. Two months.”

            “I’m ready.”

            And in one step, they were back into the flow.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fourteen: Freak on a Leash

 

            Winter was a choppy blur.

            One fight a week; that was the pattern that Sam and John had fallen into in Dean’s absence, and they maintained it after his return. One fight a week gave Sam time to rest and recuperate, gave John time to find a decent Pit where there was a likely to be a good turnout, and afforded Dean the opportunity to stick to the training schedule.

            Azazel’s name slid into something taboo and secret, hidden in empty spaces between them; no one mentioned him, or Lilith, or the other demons. Sometimes Sam felt like they were there, crawling on the edges of a fight, just out of eyeshot. It always made his skin itch and his hairs stand at attention, just waiting for the next chime of rattling keys to push him over the edge, to bring the past rushing and roaring straight into a Pit beside him, intent on choking him down.

            Sometimes, he didn’t need that sound to bring on the memory of the skin ripping from his back, of Lilith’s hand curling around his throat. Sometimes all it took was the anticipation of the possible sound.

            In those moments, he always looked to Dean.

            In spite of everything, the fights continued, training branching out into the stillness between matches like the bloom of milk in hot coffee. Dean’s life reshaped itself to form, back into everything he’d seemed to be before his time at Bobby’s; his past held back to his chest, a pistol with a hair trigger hidden under two layers of protection and all of the bravado he could muster up. It was a bigger challenge than before, to coax Dean out of his shell in moments when they were alone; more and more, Sam found himself stepping up to communicate on Dean’s level.

            Dean wasn’t a talker; he was a fighter. He spoke in blood and blows against skin. Unidentified, unspeakable things came out in the harsh pulse of blood at his wrists, his elbows, his throat, just under his collarbone. All these places that Sam had felt with the sweat of his own hands in a wrestling session, writhing for a complicated hold in a series of Jujutsu motions that Dean insisted had to be perfect.

            So, to speak Dean’s language, Sam had to fight.

            He poured all of his energy into communicating with Dean in that way; he learned the way Dean didn’t pull his punches or kicks when he’d been arguing with John over which Pit they’d fight in next week; he learned the way Dean would rather fall back on things they’d already practiced a hundred times rather than trying a new art of Jujutsu, when he’d spent time with Mary and taken himself back to New York, or Sioux Falls—to some place Sam couldn’t follow, retreating into a world Sam didn’t understand.

            More and more, when Dean’s personal demons were closing in on him, some lockbox of dark secrets he’d opened during his exile, they would full-out spar, with none of the grace of a martial-arts style. They’d tussle on the grass, flipping each other, kicking, swinging punches wildly, knocking each other against walls and slamming their bodies on the floor. This was the most profound communication they had, because one way or another it always led Dean back to a smirk, or a smile.

            So even though it left him with sore muscles and made him feel degraded, in a way, like an animal giving in to base instincts, Sam conformed himself, determined to be whatever Dean needed him to be. They wrestled, sparred, trained; sometimes they sat together on the front porch and Dean played songs that grated on Sam’s spine, others that he liked, and he never said a word either way. They didn’t talk, not about the deeper things; but that was okay.

            Sam had his brother back, and that was _okay_.

            At least, he considered Dean his brother; Sam wasn’t the most well-read on family relationships, but he’d never had someone take care of him, look out for him, or invest as much time in him as Dean had. And in Sam’s opinion, which he still kept to himself in most cases, that made Dean the closest thing to a brother that Sam had ever known, or seen an example of.

            To have Dean back, to have Mary there, and John tolerating him, made Sam’s life not only bearable but, outside of the Pits, almost enjoyable.

            It was never far from his mind how privileged he was; but that was also never more apparent than after Broken Bow, Nebraska.

            The fight was one of the smaller Sam had participated in, ten combatants including himself, inside a ring barely bigger than six-by-six feet, with iron chains to hold the monsters in. There were a standard assortment, vampires, a Changeling, a Kappa. Sam knew from experience that vampires were the most common monster to cross paths with on the circuit, because they were tough, hardy, vicious and difficult to kill; putting a stop to one in battle required dismemberment or decapitation.

            But the onslaught of vampires had made Sam accomplished in dodging and unbalancing them; and while they tended to be fast on their feet, leaving punctures all over his arms, Sam trained himself to be faster. He was good at flipping, good at meeting their blind charges with calm, solid footing and quick kicks and jabs with his hands. The crowd at Broken Bow devoured his skill like it was sweetmeat, and the fight was over almost before the audience had worked itself up to a frenzy. Sam was barely out of breath, with only a bruised midsection to show his efforts as the announcer declared the fight in his favor and let the Pit’s bouncer lead him through a door off the main room and into a small, damp corner office.

            The Pit was an abandoned warehouse with two main rooms connected by a narrow hallway, refurbished with bright spotlights, this small room converted into a holding pen. It was deep but with a low ceiling, one overbright lamp strung from pipes veining the ceiling, a rusted water fountain on one wall. The bouncer shoved Sam inside and slammed the door behind him, and Sam felt an instant, acidic prickle of dread.

            The Changeling was hunkered in a corner, expressionless eyes fixed on nothing; but two vampires, who’d walked away from fight with split lips, busted ribs and cracked collarbones, were on their feet and unchained.

            And staring at him.  

            Behind them, a Rugaru, hungry jaws snaking open and shut, blood-poisoned eyes fixated on Sam; on his throat. On the pulse there.

            “What gives you the right?” One of the vampires, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a deep voice like a smoker, stalked toward him.

            “The right?” Sam held his ground, arms braced slightly away from his body.

            “To walk with them. Talk with them.” The woman circled him, sniffing. “ _Smell like them_.” She fell back next to her partner, an oily-haired man around John’s age. “He smells like a _human_.”

            “ _They’re_ the monsters here,” The man barked. “ _They’re_ the freaks. Grinding our faces into our own blood, day after day after day! And what do we have to show for it, huh?” Spittle flew from his lips, dappling the puddles on the floor.

            The pipes leaked.

            “Look, just calm down.” Sam said coaxingly.

            “Don’t try that tone with me!” The vampire snarled. “You’re not better than me. You’re not better than those _things_ out there!” He shot a fist toward the door, his meaning clear. “Everybody knows your name. _Sam Winchester_. Everyone knows how you fight! Well, I say that’s _crap_!”

            “You’re a disgrace. You kiss so much ass, your mouth is filthy.” The woman rasped. “You think those humans out there give a damn about you?”

            “Dean’s my family,” Sam said, but the words broke slightly. It was harder to stand his ground against these monsters than against any human who ever spat at his feet; these things were more like him, from the same heritage and history.

            “What a classic story!” The woman circled Sam. “You know where I’ve heard it before? _Boy and his dog_. You’re a dog, Sam. You’re on a leash. You’re a freak on a leash, and you know what?” She grabbed his right arm, wrenching it away from his body, tracing the outline of the _Winchester_ brand on his skin. “You’re no better than any of us.”

            “No, you’re worse, you tail-licking son of a bitch.” Her counterpart flipped the back of his hand through Sam’s hair, startling him. “At least we know what we are. We know we’ve gotta fight to stay alive. But you still think your humans give _enough_ of a crap to watch out for you.” He jerked his chin at the door. “ _They_ should be the ones dying out there, not us!”

            “Watch your mouth,” Sam growled.

            “You wanna kill us, baby, go ahead.” The woman simpered. “All you’ll do is make yourself more like us and less like them.”

            Sam loosened his stance. “I’m not killing anyone.”

            “And that,” The male vampire tapped a fist against his leg. “Is why you’re never going to last in these fights.”

            He socked Sam in the gut, hard, but Sam was used to reading tells; shifting weight, a change in expression and in this case, in tone. He tightened his abdominal muscles, feeling little more than a faint blunt impact.

            “I’m still in, aren’t I?” Sam challenged, one hand guarding his midsection as he backed toward the door.

            “Not for long.” The woman grabbed a fistful of Sam’s hair, yanking him off balance. He twisted in her hold, shutting out the pain in his scalp, grabbing her arm in both hands and shoving her backwards against the wall.

            The Rugaru joined in the scrabble, hooking onto Sam’s back and glomming sharp ridged molars onto the top of his shoulder. Sam’s jaw clenched, a sharp grunt of pain slipping out as he backpedaled, ramming the Rugaru against the wall. Its hold detached and it slithered off of him, dropping to the floor. Sam’s fingers hunted for the gushing bite on his neck, but before he could stanch the flow the woman had him by the temples, ramming his head against the wall, once, twice, then punching him so hard in the face that his eye watered and started to swell.

            “Where’s your human _now_?” She hissed, triumphant, fangs boring out from her gums on a straight trajectory for his throat.

            The door opened, flooding in light, and Sam heard a slur of voices; the vampire’s hands left his head and the world swished with vertigo, dumping him on his ass on the floor, his back to the wall. Snippets of words came through, someone asking, _shouldn’t we do something?_ , followed quickly by, _It’s not our problem. Winchester will find him_.

            The vampires were dragged out, the Changeling, kicking and screaming, and the Rugaru with hungry jaws still snapping for Sam’s blood.

            They left him, cold and damp and bleeding.

            Sam’s eyes rolled listlessly, following the railroad of pipes from one end of the room to the other. He could feel hot blood pulsing down his shoulder, a knot forming on the back of his head; how many more knocks to his skull he could take before brain damage set in, he wasn’t sure.

            His thoughts wove through a clotted pattern, trying to find rhyme and reason; rebelling against implications that he was nothing more than a monster, a tool of the people he’d come to consider his family. Dean, at least, saw him as something more than that. He had to, after all these months.

            Didn’t he?

            The lock clattered, the door easing open, and Sam rocked his head up slightly from where it had dipped to his chest, just far enough to catch sight of a pair of boots splashing in the puddle just inside the door. “Sam?”

            “Hey, Dean.” Sam replied huskily.

            “Holy _crap_.” Dean’s feet kicked a spray of dirty water as he knelt, clapping one hand to the side of Sam’s neck. “Did this happen during the fight?”

            Sam worked his way up to a frown. “You would’ve known if it had.” There was a pause. “ _Dean_?”

            “Crap,” Dean said under his breath. “How—?”

            “The rest of the monsters. Weren’t…chained.” Sam squirmed at the invasive feeling of Dean’s fingertips moving at the tattered teethmarks.

            “Easy, easy, stay still. Ah, damn.” Dean muttered. “How do you always get yourself into this stuff?”

            “Just…that lucky, I guess.”

            Dean snorted. “Your good luck could turn a guy’s hair gray.” He leaned steady pressure on the wound. “What am I not seeing?”

            “M’head’s busted.” Sam admitted.

            “How bad?” When Sam didn’t answer, Dean pressed in closer, almost knees-to-chest with him. “Sammy! How bad?”

            “Pr’ty bad, I guess.” Sam mumbled.

            “You musta pissed off the wrong monster.”

            “Three monsters.” Sam said.

            “Figures.” Dean used his free hand to tip Sam’s head back, casting low light over his eye. “Helluva shiner. What’d they hit you with, a pole?”

            “Feels like it,” Sam winced.

            “All right, c’mon, let’s get you out of here,” Dean curled an arm around Sam’s back, rocking him forward, and the motion felt like it was jarring something loose in Sam’s head. He knotted a fist in the front of Dean’s jacket.

            “Dean… _Dean_! I need to…Dean, just wait.”

            Dean let him slide back against the wall. “What? What’s wrong?”

            “’M’I different?” Sam asked. When Dean just stared at him uncomprehendingly, Sam pressed on, feeling like this was a question that needed asking, here, and now. “Am I a freak, Dean?”

            Dean’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened slightly. “How bad did you hit your head, Sam?”

            “Dean, I’m serious!”

            “You’re not a freak!” Dean cut him off, his grip tightening around Sam’s shoulder until he winced. “You’re a pain in the ass, you’re climbing the walls, but you are _not_ a freak. Okay? Not a freak. Now can we go?”

            “Wanna fight you.”

            “What?” Dean said blankly.

            “We need to fight. So we can talk.”

            “Your eggs are totally scrambled.” Dean braced a hand on Sam’s chest. “C’mon, up-and-at-’em, Sammy.”

            The world plunged and rose under his feet like a heaving ship and Sam’s skull felt like it had been compressed through a paper shredder as Dean hauled him out toward the parking lot. The bright lights cut into his eyes and he squeezed them shut, hard.

            “What happened?” John’s gruff voice stretched out to lead them through the darkness toward the car, and Sam was thankful when he could lean against the stable flank of the Impala.

            “Nobody took the time to split the fighters up.” Dean’s voice was level but dark with anger. “Sam took the brunt of it.”

            “Here, hold him steady.” John’s fingers were suddenly probing Sam’s skull, surprisingly gentle. “Yup, that’s a concussion. He’s got a goose egg the size of my fist back there. Must’ve hit him pretty hard.”

            “We’ll have to patch him up, keep him awake.” Dean said. He surprised Sam by sliding into the backseat ahead of him. “Let’s go, Sam, come on.”

            Sam eased himself down obediently, bare feet sliding into the footwell. John shut the door behind him and Dean levered Sam down with the steady insistence of a one-handed grip until he was sprawled awkward, his feet jammed under the front seat beside Dean’s, his body contorted across the back with Dean taking up half, still pressing down on his shoulder.

            “I’ve got the names of every Handler that was in here tonight,” John said as the engine caught. “I’ll be having a word with them.”

            And that one simple act on his behalf made Sam’s chest feel looser. “Thanks, sir.”

            Sam wasn’t sure how far they drove, miles or minutes, before Dean fell asleep; it was an all-of-a-sudden thing, but then, Sam knew that that was just how Dean was. He didn’t take forever to fall asleep. He grabbed snatches whenever his body decided it was time to be inert.

            Sam felt John’s gaze tracing back to him again and again in the rearview mirror. “Feel nauseated, Sam?”

            “No, sir.” Sam murmured, tucking his head against the door. “Just sore.”

            “Uh-huh. What’s eatin’ at you?”       

            Sam tried to frown, found it took too much effort. “Sir?”   

            “Dean’s not the only one who can read a face. He hasn’t seen half of the things I’ve seen, either, in my twelve years on the circuit. Monsters can be downright scary with each other. What aren’t you telling Dean?”

            Sam snuffed, letting his eyes droop to half-mast. “Those vampires. They think I’m some kinda traitor for treating you and Dean and Mary like you’re my family.”

            John actually chuckled at that, a warm sound that wrapped around Sam’s head. “Well, if that’s their case, then they’re lookin’ at  a family of traitors, Sam. You’d fit right in.” He clicked on the radio, tuned in to the station that played every song from the seventies on a loop.

            Winning fights always seemed to put John in a charitable mood.

            Sam folded into himself, tucking his head over on Dean’s hand, still mashed against his neck wound. He could already feel that it wouldn’t be bad enough to hold him out of a fight. The concussion, he’d have to take in stride; but they needed him out there, still fighting, plowing on.

            Freak, or not, ass-kisser, or accepted, Sam steeled himself right then and there, with the vents blowing hot air against the frosty windows, John singing low in the front seat, Dean breathing beside him—Sam resolved himself to keep fighting.

            He knew he didn’t deserve this, of all creatures alive, human or monster, he didn’t deserve any of this love or loyalty, it was all a gift.

            And he was going to make the most of it.

           

-X-

 

            “I don’t believe this.”

            John hurled the newspaper onto the table between Sam and Dean; Mary, who was coring strawberries by the sink, looked up in surprise.

            “What is it?”

            Sam glanced across the table, gauging Dean’s reaction. They sprang almost in tandem, wrestling for the paper, and Dean managed to slip it free after an underhanded kick to Sam’s shin beneath the table. Sitting back with a mollified smirk, Dean flipped the paper open and started reading. Sam receded back to his dry cereal, still nursing the remnants of the black eye and the healing scar from the Broken Bow confrontation, and deciding it was better to pick his battles wisely.

            Dean slapped the paper down on the table, spread wide. “You gotta be kidding me.” He looked up at John. “Is this legit?”

            “Far as I can tell.”      

            “What is it?” Mary repeated, sweeping her hair behind her ear and coming to stand beside John, behind Dean’s chair.

            John’s gray eyes frothed with confliction. “Lilith just declared war on Sam.”

            Sam inhaled a mouthful and choked, pounding a hand on his chest until he gagged the Cheerios back out. “ _W-What_?”

            “Listen to this,” Dean scanned the article. “‘Often referred to as the ‘ _Queen of the League_ ’, Lilith has announced her position regarding the rise of a trained monster through the Preliminary ranks. ‘ _I don’t see why it’s making so much news. No human Handler has ever made it into the Leagues. But if Sam Winchester manages to prove us all wrong, we’ll be waiting for him in the big cities with a very, very warm welcome_.’” Dean smoothed the paper flat. “Then there’s something in here about Gordon, how he’s sorta dropped off the grid to get The Duchess ready and she’s still got a good eighteen fights on Sam.”

            “She doesn’t have Sam’s skill.” John dismissed. “Even if she’s his last fight before the Leagues, she shouldn’t be a problem.”

            Eighteen fights. Sam stared into the bowl. Eighteen fights and he’d be face-to-face with Lilith. Eighteen fights with demons lurking on the edges, sizing him up. Eighteen fights, and they’d be in the Leagues.

            And Lilith knew it, because Lilith was watching his every move.

            “Sam!” Dean leaned his elbows on the tabletop, snapping his fingers. “Hey! Earth to Sam. You copy?”

            Sam squirmed in his chair. “Yeah, what? I’m listening.”

            “All right. So?”

            “So, what?” Sam curled his hands into fists on his knees.

            “So, whaddya say? I mean, Lilith just called you out, man. She knows you’re climbing rank.”

            “What do you _want_ me to say?” Sam deflected.

            “How about what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

            “Does it matter?” Sam rubbed his knuckles over the knees of his jeans. “Even if said I was scared of her, it doesn’t change anything. We can’t stop fighting, not now. Not after thirty-two fights.”

            “He’s right.” John rumbled. “We’re scraping by as it is, but if we pull Sam back, we’ll lose credibility. Losing credibility means losing money, means we’re right back where we started.”

            “This is ridiculous.” Mary said, suddenly, slapping her hand down on the newspaper and startling both Sam and Dean. “When did the entire world get so stuck in this—pardon my French— _bullshit_ cycle?”

            “The demons played their cards right.” John shrugged. “No one really saw what was going on until it was too late. Now the bets and the fights are all we have.”

            Dean went a thoughtful kind of quiet, tapping his arched fingertips against the newspaper. “What if we win?”

            Sam looked up at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “What?”

            “What if we win?” Dean repeated. “I mean, fifty Prelims is one thing. But if we make it to the League, and take on the toughest sons of bitches they’ve got—yeah, ma, I know, _language_ —we could tear this whole thing down.”

            Sam caught a flicker of fear in Mary’s eyes, her gaze riveted on John.

            “Dean, it’s not that simple.” John said. “We’re talking about a hundred years of tradition. _A hundred years of fighting_. The world might be too broken to go back. And besides, Sam, he’s…” John trailed off, then addressed Sam directly. “You _are_ different, Sam. You’re a breed apart. But that doesn’t change the fact that the odds aren’t stacked in our favor. And the further you go, the further you isolate yourself. From humans _and_ from monsters.”

            Sam scratched at the healing, concussive knot on the back of his head. “I know. But Dean’s right.”

            Dean blinked. “I am?”

            Sam nodded. “I’ve told you guys everything I know about where I came from. Everything that matters. But for Lilith to actually speak out about this, about what we’re doing? She’s nervous. Nothing she tried with me ever worked, and now I can actually fight?” He snorted and shook his head. “She’s _making_ this personal. So I think Dean’s right. We should take the fight straight to them.”

            “Well, hell, you know I’m in.” Dean grinned.

            “The Leagues,” John verified. “People call it Hell. _Hellfire,_ you understand that? Only the select few humans with enough money to make it in the big cities are even allowed inside those doors.”

            “That means the bets are bigger, right?” Sam asked. “The stakes are higher.”

            “That’s right.” John nodded.

            “Then I want you to promise me something. All of you, promise me something.” When he was sure he had their undivided attention, Sam crossed his arms on the table. “If we do this, then…no matter what happens to me, after it’s over, you have to stop Handling. Get as far away from the fights as you can, and live your own lives.”

            “Man, what are you talking about? You’ll be right there with us.” Dean scoffed.

            “Dean.” Sam insisted. “Just _promise_ me, okay?”

            Asking Dean, now, directly. Not John and Mary. Sam felt the tightness at the corners of his eyes, the way his mouth tipped down of its own accord.

            “Of course, Sam.” Mary said. “You have our word.”

            “One last run.” John agreed, and while his support was a surprise, Sam didn’t take his focus off of Dean. Matching each other; studying each other. Reading the secrets hidden behind the mysteries in each other’s eyes.

            Dean’s expression was concerned, confused. “Yeah, you got it, Sammy.”

            Sam deflated. “Then let’s aim for the top.”

            The levity returned by a fraction to the situation, Dean swiveling around to straddle the chair and talk to John, folding the newspaper in one hand. Sam glanced at Mary, caught her watching him with an abundant sadness in her eyes, and too late, Sam remembered how well Mary could define a situation.

            He studied his cereal.

            Whatever Dean said, the thought of the Leagues gave Sam a feeling of finality, of closure on his own life. Because the Leagues, the one place he’d always traveled on the outskirts—it was terrifying, for Handlers and monsters alike. Death and war wrapped in bright lights and fanfare.

            Because he’d rattled the bars of Lilith’s cage.

            And because there was no telling what Lilith, scared, would do.

 

-X-

 

            The determination to go head-to-head against Lilith and meet her challenge should’ve changed Dean’s world around.

            But it didn’t.

There was no denying that things were different, in some respects; the decision seemed to have united them, somehow. It was obvious that John was making an effort to be more amiable, more approachable; that Mary was giving John less of a wide berth, toleration sliding toward something that hinted at welcoming; that Sam wasn’t on tenterhooks as much anymore, wasn’t jumping at the truck backfiring or doors slamming upstairs. Though he was quiet, his reserve returning, seeming caught up in his own thoughts more often than not. The ambush at Broken Bow had left him with more than a bump on the head and a black eye; he had a solitude in his expression that sometimes set Dean on edge. But he was still throwing himself headlong into training, and into fighting, even if he was scared of the demons.

            Dean felt caught in the middle, something stuck in its sameness while everything around it continued to change.

            The fight was supposed to help, because the fight was supposed to make sense; Pits didn’t change, hadn’t changed in almost a century. They were a shifting constant, a place of troubles and worries hidden inside of rowdy screams. You could stand in the audience of a Pit and shout out your problems to the world and only those closest to you would hear—and even then, they didn’t care. No one did.

            The fight was supposed to distract you, consume you, it was supposed to cure your doubts or absorb them.

            But coming back wasn’t as easy as Dean had thought it would be; there was something missing, a void, an itchy hollowness that nestled beneath his ribcage. Somehow, watching monsters tear at each other’s throats had shirked some of its adrenaline-pumping splendor. Every sick splatter of blood squeezed a tight vice around Dean’s chest, it pissed him off; no sooner would they arrive, climbing out of the Impala, than a part of him would wish they were on the road again already.

            The only thing that really kept him in the game at all was Sam; it was the promise he’d made: watch Sam’s back. It kept him hanging tough, screaming advice from the floor as Sam battled his way through round after round. But it didn’t sit right; a part of him was dying away in fragments, the hollowness yawning wider.

            Lost and drifting, with the whole world changing around him.

            “D—n. _Dean_. Are you listening to me?” A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him. “Dean!”

            He jolted, his wandering thoughts snapping back to attention as he straightened up. “Huh?”

            “The fight’s over.” John said with thinly veiled disappointment in his voice. Dean was pretty sure that disappointment was directed at him.

            They were in Portal, North Dakota, a stone’s throw from the abandoned border between the United States and Canada; this fight was closer than most, a sparring match inside an old rusting bar, only Handlers and their monsters and a handful of bystanders allowed. It was pure cash, but it counted on the tally, and tomorrow night it would be Sam’s thirty-third fight. Not now; they’d showed up a day early, found out that this was a steady establishment, fights happening every few nights. Sam was slotted for a face-off tomorrow, which left them with an extra day to get their roots down and get a feel for who they would be up against.

            This place was rare, and Dean knew it; most Pits opened and closed sporadically, got up, moved. Hard to track, hard to keep track of, never open for sure one night or the next. Portal was different that way, but it tended to draw seedier Handlers who couldn’t scrape by in bigger fights.

            So when Dean noticed Sam wasn’t beside him anymore, his first instinct was pure, cutting protectiveness.

            Ever since Broken Bow, Dean had made a conscious effort to get to Sam as fast as he could after a fight, and to keep him in sight at all times; he hadn’t seen those two vampires since that warehouse in Nebraska, but John had disappeared during a Pit match in Toledo and come back with blood on his knuckles and a cut cheek, and Dean and Sam didn’t ask questions.

            Sometimes, wounds spoke for themselves.

            “Sam?” Dean raised his voice slightly, sweeping the narrow aisles of the establishment with a concentrated gaze. The Pit itself was the size of a broom closet, the fighters having gone chest-to-chest with each other, and when Dean took a step he realized the floor was sleek with blood. Ignoring a couple who were bent over the vacated bar counter, their hands exploring each other with drunken abandon, Dean swept the room for a glimpse of Sam’s lanky form and tousled hair.

            “Sam!” He repeated, louder, and someone yelled at him to shut up.

            Under the rosy glow of red-blue lights, Dean saw a brief flash of ashy-blond hair that made him stop, head cocked. A scent hit him that brought back a tingle of memories.

            A hand grabbed his elbow, startling him, and he jerked his arm free.

            “It’s just me, Dean.” Sam said, holding up both hands.

            Dean turned to him, dismissing the instant of electric interest. “Where were you?”

            “I was looking for the bathroom. There isn’t one, in case you were wondering.”

            “I wouldn’t take a leak in here if you paid me to.” Dean shot a look toward the groping couple. “C’mon, let’s shag ass. This place is a dump.”

            They met up with John at the door and he fell in beside them, crossing the parking lot toward the Impala, glistening damp near the high, moldering fence. Dean hunched his shoulders against a gust of cold air; it was the beginning of March, still winter by every standard, and damn near arctic this far north. Looking back, he couldn’t remember half of the fight; or much of the fights before it.

            His brain felt like a limb that was atrophying, going slowly numb.

            And he couldn’t bring himself to care.

            “We oughta look for a hotel,” John said as they reached the car. “Someplace we can all get a good night’s sleep.”

            “Sam gets the bed.” Dean volunteered.

            “What? No.” Sam protested. “I can take the floor.”

            “Nu-uh, you’re in the ring tomorrow, pal. Gives you dibs.”

            “Okay, then I call dibs _on the floor_.”

            “That’s enough,” John headed off the argument. “You both take a bed. _I’ll_ take the floor. I won’t turn this into a debate.”

            Sam shot Dean a corkscrewed, frustrated look over the top of the car, ducking in the backseat. Rolling his eyes, Dean climbed in shotgun beside John.

            “You know where there’s a motel around here anyway?” Dean asked as the Impala glided from the parking lot and onto the wet street, tires hissing.

            “We’ll drive around, see what we can find.”

            Sam was quiet in the backseat, either frustrated or thinking over the impending fight, Dean wasn’t sure. It was hard for him to latch his own brain around it, try to think clearly; try to think beyond anything other than wondering where they were going to sleep and just how badly Sam was going to need patching up after tomorrow’s round.

            It was a few minutes of aimlessly turning corners before Dean noticed the glare of headlights reflecting off the rearview mirror; another minute after that, and it settled in that he’d been catching glares off the edge ever since they’d left the bar.

            “Dad?” Dean said, and it really meant, _You see it_?

            “Yeah.” John replied grimly, hands vice-tight on the steering wheel. “Been following us for a while now.”

            “Demons?” Dean asked.

            “Dunno, hard to tell.”

            Sam leaned forward, draping his arms over the seatback. “What’s the plan?”

            John seemed to ponder that, maintaining a steady speed, betraying no trace of anxiety. “We’ll double back. Saw another bar about two blocks back. If they follow us that far, we get out and see what’s what.”

            At the next intersection, John pulled a sharp turn, heading back up the street; Dean flopped one arm along the seat and glanced casually over his shoulder, watching the glittering outline of a bulky black van continue on toward the next stoplight behind them.

            Then circle back onto their tails.

            “Dammit,” He muttered.

            John sped up by a token amount, sliding the Impala sideways into the parking lot of the bar, and turning to face Dean in the seat. “Dean, take Sam and head into the bar. I’ll sweep the perimeter, try to scope out the vehicle.”

            “Could be the one that rammed us,” Sam suggested.

            “That’s what I want to find out.” John reached under the seat, pulled out the Colt and passed it to Dean. “Keep that on you. And you boys, watch each other’s backs.”

            “Yes, sir,” They harmonized, and with a nod John slid out. Dean and Sam followed after him, waiting for John to go around the far side of the small bar before they headed toward the door.

            The van pulled into the parking lot, stopped. Dean laid his hand on the door, the thought of John out there alone gnawing at the back of his mind. He reached over after a moment’s deliberation, snagged the front of Sam’s shirt and pulled him around the side of the bar.

            “Ow—Dean!”

            “Here.” Dean shoved the Colt into Sam’s hands. “Cover me.”

            “Dean! Hey!”

            Dean was already gone, in a flapping corner of his jacket, striding with bowlegged swiftness across the parking lot, back toward the Impala. He rounded the tail of the van in time to see someone—a woman, definitely, with the shape of her hips and the tumble of her hair—hop down from the passenger’s seat, adjusting her black jacket and brushing crumbs off her jeans.

            Dean grabbed a fistful of coarse leather and blond hair, spinning the girl around and slamming her against the side of the van. “Who are you?”

            Her response was a kick aimed toward his instep. Dean arched his body in, dodging her, then pressed in; chest-to-back with her, holding her flush up against the vehicle and trying to ignore the way the curve of her form fit into the bow of his.

            “I asked you who the hell—?”

            And then he realized that the sound of her breathing, and her hair, and her form, were familiar to him.

He felt the cold kiss of a gun’s barrel on the nape of his neck.

“You best take your hands off my daughter, slick.”

Dean’s eyes shot sideways; he recognized that deep feminine voice, commanding the situation like a general on a battlefield.

“Whoa, whoa, easy. Okay.” Dean took his hands back.

There was a ricocheting thump, the rub of skidding feet, and Sam barreled around the corner of the van, the Colt up and aimed. For the first time, Dean realized he’d never taught Sam how to shoot a gun; he made a mental note to add that to their list of training.

Hands still up, Dean stared down the barrel of the gun, to the face of the auburn-haired woman beyond. “Ellen?”

She blinked at him, dark eyes squinting, slowly lowering her gun hand. “Dean?” She looked him up and down. “I’ll be damned.”

“See, mom? Told you it was him.”

Dean glared at the girl peeling herself off the side of the van, tugging off her fingerless gloves. “Nice seeing you too, Jo.”

“Hey. _You_ jumped _me_ , Winchester. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Dean?” Sam said, his tone careful.

“It’s good, Sam. It’s good. They’re friends.” Dean flipped a cocky smile toward Ellen as he said it.

“Practically family.” She stepped forward and folded him into a hug. “It’s good to see you again, Dean.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Sam cocked the hammer down on the Colt, with one of his gashed, sheepish sideways smiles. “You’re Ellen? Ellen Harvelle?”

“The one and only.” Ellen stepped back. “You must be Sam. I’ve heard a lot about you, sweetheart. Can’t go a mile on the streets these days without hearing your name somewhere.”

“Yeah, you, too. I mean,” Sam scrambled, suddenly awkward, flushing. “Dean’s told me all about you guys. What you did for him and Mary.” Sam tucked the Colt under one arm and offered Ellen his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Ellen hesitated for a second, then extended her hand. “Yeah. Same to you.”

            “Hello? I’m right _here_?” Jo said, petulantly, and Dean rolled his eyes; a second later he came to attention as John joined them, eyes shadowed, face haggard.

            “Dean?”

            “Everything’s cool, dad.” Dean assured him. “This is Ellen and Jo Harvelle, they’re the ones who…” He trailed off. “Hang on a second. Where’s Bill?”

            Ellen’s face clouded briefly, and Jo pursed her full lips, glancing at the pavement.

            “Ellen?” Dean prompted, and Sam’s eyes crunched with sympathy, already anticipating the worst.

            Ellen clicked the safety on her gun and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans. “Maybe we’d better talk about this over a drink.”        

 

           

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Fifteen: Against the World

 

            “Bill’s dead.”

            Ellen dropped the bombshell in a tiny bar packed tighter than sardines in a can, the five of them crowded around a high table, standing because someone else had stolen the chairs before they’d even arrived. Sam was pressed in tight, elbow-to-elbow with John and Dean, and when Ellen said it Dean jerked violently and almost spat out a mouthful of beer.

            “ _What_?”

            Sam understood the gravity of the news, if by nothing else than the way that Jo became supremely interested in her drink, and shadows pooled in the crows-feet behind Ellen’s eyes.

            “’Bout a month after you left.”

            “Wait, that’s—” Dean’s face was switching emotions, from shocked to arrogant, from naked with fear to disbelief. “You guys were supposed to leave the country. You were supposed to _get out_.”

            “It doesn’t always work out like that, Dean.” Jo spun the bottle across her palms. “Not when you’re two mil in debt with demons on your ass.”

            “I’m sorry, what?” John’s tone was dangerous, deadly calm, and Sam drew away from him slightly. “You’re telling me the people who helped raise my _son_ are Handlers?”

            “Well, somebody had to do the job, John, and no offense, but you weren’t exactly stepping up to the plate.” Ellen said with quiet bluntness. “So, yeah, Bill and me, we offered to help. Any way we could.”

            “How’d it happen?” Dean’s voice was throaty, the kind of sandpaper-on-wood rough that meant he was having a hard time holding himself together. Sam shifted slightly, leaning his shoulder against Dean’s, unsurprised when Dean leaned back. Strength-to-strength, heart-to-body, Sam covering Dean when the tide of whatever he was feeling threatened to suck him under.

            “The day we were supposed to leave, he, uh,” Jo’s face crumpled slightly, her focus on the bottle intensifying. “He didn’t wake up. He just went to sleep and never snapped out of it.”

            “That’s almost kind, for a Handler.” Ellen put in, though for whose benefit Sam wasn’t sure; four of them were Handlers themselves, and he was a monster who’d spent the better part of twenty years as a demonic plaything. The savagery of the game wasn’t lost on any of them. “They didn’t butcher Jo and me, they let us sleep right through whatever it was they did to him.”

            “Most Handlers would’ve killed us.” Jo agreed. “But whoever came to collect on dad’s debt decided we weren’t worth the trouble.”

            “Lucky them.” Dean’s bravado was back, filling the holes in his armor where the pain had leaked through. He tipped the beer to his lips. “Or I’d have to waste the suckers.” He let the ominous statement hang in the air as he downed a drink.

            “So you took up the job.” John said flatly.

            “Bill still had a monster or two left. He was planning on selling them for spare parts, more or less.” Ellen leaned outstretched arms on the table. “There was only one real fighter. A Kitsune. Nasty bitch, real bite to her. We sold off the rest. Been on the road ever since.”

            Sam felt Dean trading his weight from foot-to-foot, the tell in his eyes of memories. Remembering, Sam was sure, the artsy flat that Dean had described as his home in New York for seven long years. By all accounts that Sam had pieced together, it must’ve been a comfortable, high-end establishment. Nothing like the grimy life of a Handler, carried out in backyards and slums.

            “What about your job?” Dean directed the question at Ellen. “The bar?”

            “Sweetie, the _Gold Leaf_ closed the day after you and Mary left town.” Ellen said gently. “After that, Seeders took over.”

            “Seeders?” Sam echoed.

            “Gangs.” Dean glanced at Jo. “They hold fights off-record, swap drugs instead of money. They pretty much own the lower half of New York.”

            “And the influence is spreading.” Ellen added. “By the time we made it out, the city was mostly divided, Seeders to demons.”

            “Son of a bitch,” Dean said, softly. “So now you’re _Handlers_?”

            “We didn’t have much of a choice.” Ellen squinted at him, the salmon-pink light of the bar making her face look older, sadder. “When they killed my husband, they took our plane tickets. Took all the money. Everything.”

            “Stranded us.” Jo said, eyebrows up, and Dean looked down like the words had impacted him directly. It left Sam uneasy, wondering if he’d missed something.

            “Anyway,” Ellen cleared her throat after a pregnant pause. “That’s that. We buried our Bill and moved on.”

            “Where have you been?” Dean demanded. “How come I didn’t hear about you guys on the circuit before?”

            “We’ve been staying off the radar on purpose, dumbass.” Jo said. “If those guys who killed my dad are still out there, and they find out we’re Handlers, too? They’ll be back to collect on the debt like _that_.” She snapped her fingers, jarring Sam slightly.

            “Our anonymity is all we have.” Ellen agreed. “We’re not looking to advance through the Preliminaries. We enter as many fights as we have to, to keep our heads above water.” She shook her head. “I can tell you this much: this isn’t just your war, Dean. This is war. Us against the demons. The longer I’m in the life, the more I see it.”

            “Does Mary know?” John asked, straightforward and firm.

            “About us?” Ellen swung her gaze to him. “No, not as far as I can tell.”

            “Dad always kept it kind of on the down-low, you know?” Jo said. “He didn’t want Mary and Dean to leave.”

            By the way she said it, her eyes on Dean, and the swift way he glanced up at her, Sam had the feeling Bill wasn’t the only one who had wanted the Winchesters to stay established in that household.

            He felt a prickle of something that he quickly dismissed.

            “All right, I gotta ask.” Dean angled himself toward Jo. “Why were you following me, blondie?”

            Her eyes popped wide at the nickname. “ _Shut up_.”

            Dean smirked briefly. “No, I’m serious, Jo. Why were you guys tailing us?”

            “I saw you at that Pit.” Jo shrugged. “Thought I recognized you.”

            “Most people kinda walk up and shake hands when they see someone they recognize. Y’know, they don’t tail ’em through back alleys at night.”

            Jo cocked her head. “Um, haven’t seen you in six months, Dean. Kind of had to make sure it was really you and that you hadn’t turned into some—”

            “Raging psychopath?”

            “Something like that, yeah.”

            “So, you’re in the fight tomorrow?” John finished his beer.

            “Our Kitsune is, yeah.” Jo nodded. “It’ll be a bigger crowd, from the sound of things. It usually heats up on the second night.”

            “What about Sam? I didn’t see him fighting tonight.” Ellen slid a glance his way and Sam tried to muster up a smile; he wasn’t nervous, exactly, being around two unfamiliar Handlers. Just cautious. There wasn’t much anyone could do, even with a loaded firearm, if Dean and John were there.

            “Nah, he’s on the dock for tomorrow, too.” Dean said, so casually it surprised Sam. All of the pre-fight jitters seemed to have left Dean weeks ago, but it still came as something of a shock just how laid back he was about the whole scene now.

            “Well, great. We’re screwed.” Jo said lightly. “Can I get another beer?”

 

-X-

 

            Ellen and Jo knew where to find the only motel in town, and they’d been staying there for four days.

            Luckily, the room next door to theirs was vacated; John paid for the night, dragged a mattress from another empty box-sized room further down the row, and ten minutes later he was asleep. Not long after that, Sam was snoring lightly with his face buried in the mildewed pillow.

            Dean sat on the edge of his bed, arms hanging off his knees, eyes closed. His mind played through his time with Bill on a never-ending reel: training, watching fights, living a double-life of school and family dinners against sneaking out. And now Jo and Ellen were back, and everything had shifted, wildly, swinging from one absolute to another, it seemed. Dean’s two families, colliding.

            He knew John was pissed. Knew he’d have to come clean about Bill, about the fights in New York, about everything he’d told Bobby.

            Just, not yet.

            There was a quick double-beat knock at the door, a pause, then three more taps; a familiar pattern, a code from adolescent years gone by. Dean shoved off the bed and hurried to open the door, stepping out onto the covered walkway in front of the motel. Jo leaned out of his way, hooking her thumbs in the back pockets of her jeans and looking him up and down critically.

            “Would it be a total cliché to tell you that you got taller?”

            Dean wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet in a hug, and without hesitation Jo twined her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in Dean’s hair.

            “Damn, it’s good to see you,” Dean muttered into the curve of Jo’s shoulder. She still smelled like New York.

            “Missed you too, Winchester.”

            It took effort to pull back and look her in the eye. “Handling? You serious? You never wanted this life.”

            Jo shrugged her arms away from her body, then dropped them limply back to her sides. “It pays the bills.”

            “Barely.” Dean glanced over his shoulder toward the motel room. “Is your mom, uh—?”

            “Sawing logs like it’s her job.” Jo jerked her chin, indicating the door. “What about those two?”

            “Down for the count.”

            “Awesome.” Jo tucked her hands back into her pockets and shifted her weight to one side, indicating the street. “How about a walk?”

            So they walked, under the harsh fluorescent glare of streetlamps that tinted Jo’s hair garish orange and painted Dean’s scruff bright ginger. Jo kicked water puddles and always looked down; Dean tucked his head, and watched her.

            There was something coming, waiting to be said.

            “So,” Jo cleared her throat, finally. “Dean Winchester. Drinking with monsters.”

            Dean pointed at her warningly. “Don’t say anything.”

            Jo held up both hands in a fending-off gesture, laughter sparkling in her eyes. “I didn’t say—!”

            “Yeah, you did.” Dean pitched his voice high and exaggerated his steps. “‘ _Dean Winchester, drinking with monsters! Holy freaking crap! Alert the media_!’”

            “I don’t sound like that!”

            “S’what it sounded like to me.”

            “Shut _up_.”

            Dean chuckled, swiping his tongue over his lip. “So? How’s that Kitsune working out for you guys? She a handful?”

            “Nothing we can’t manage.” Jo said. “Mostly she just sleeps and eats. Kinda like a baby. Whatever my dad did to her, it taught her how to keep her mouth shut.”

            Dean’s mind conjured memories that gave him a fingernails-on-chalkboard feeling skating down his spine; walking into the subterranean parking garage of the flat, finding Bill with his monsters; beating. _Flogging_. Breaking them to his will.

            “You don’t have to pull the whole ‘tough-girl’, badass attitude.” Dean said. “It’s crap and I know you better than that.”

            “It’s not an _attitude_ , Dean, it’s the way I have to be.” Jo turned their course to the right, farther away from the motel. “Pit fights aren’t the place for some dreamy-eyed schoolgirl.”

            Dean conceded that, with a rock-solid feeling in his gut. “How’re you holdin’ up with your dad gone, anyway?”

            Jo shrugged one shoulder. “Okay, I guess,” And she quickly changed the subject. “John seems to be happy to have you back.”

            “Yeah, things are lookin’ up.” Dean said, flatly.

            “Right.” Jo turned to face him, taking measured backward steps. “You’re lying through your teeth, Winchester. What’s wrong?”

            Dean tugged his elbows away from his body in a gesture of resignation. “It’s just, this…I mean, this whole damn life. It gets old pretty fast, watching these things kill each other every week. And people throw thousands of dollars into this? It’s crap.”

            “Of course it’s crap, we always _knew_ it was crap.” Jo said. “That didn’t stop us from tagging along with my dad.” She stopped, facing Dean on the corner of the street. “It didn’t stop you from turning into a Handler, either.”

            Dean swallowed the first answer that leaped to his tongue: that this, what Jo was doing, hadn’t been the life she’d wanted, even though Dean had always found it fascinating, had almost, in a way, romanticized it. But that he knew exactly why Jo was doing what she was doing. He’d known from the first time they’d gone to a Pit with Bill, the first time they’d trained with him.

            “You two clear things up before he died?” Dean asked, squinting from the glare of the streetlight overhead.

            Jo pursed her lips. “The last thing he ever said to me was that he didn’t know what _I_ was going to do without a fight to keep me going. You call that cleared up?”

            “Jo, I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. I spent my while life trying to fit inside my dad’s nine dots. Now that he’s gone, it’s like I can do my own thing. You know?”

            Dean overlooked the gaps in her reasoning and behavior, staring beyond her, to the vacant intersection where they’d stopped. Jo followed his gaze and a smile rounded out her full face.

            “We’ll always have that intersection outside the apartment for ourselves, right?”

            Dean grinned, rising to the bait. “You mean that night we snuck out and—?”

            “Mm-hmm. Right there in the middle of the busy street.” Jo arched an eyebrow. “I gotta say, Winchester, I didn’t know you could deliver like that. You spent so many years with a stick up your ass, I thought I’d have to spell it out for you if we were ever going to have some _real_ fun.”

            “Hey, I came through, right?” Dean stepped off the curb, into the middle of the crossroad; arms spread wide, challenging Jo to follow him. She did, hopping into a puddle that had gathered against the side of the street.

            “At the last second, yeah. If you hadn’t been such a gentleman about it in the first place, we would never have gotten caught.”

            “I thought your dad was gonna blow my head off.” Dean chuckled.

            “Well, what do you know? This could be _our_ intersection, too.” Jo perched her hands on her hips, and Dean tossed a smirk her way. “What? It’s deserted.”

            “Yeah, so what’s the point? This thing’s a helluva lot more fun when people are watching, right?” Dean closed the space between them, leaning his head down as Jo tipped hers back, their noses almost brushing. “I ever tell you how great you looked in that see-through—?”

            Jo punched his shoulder, hard, and Dean backed away, still grinning.

            “Don’t push your luck, Winchester.”

            “Nah, my dad would load my ass fulla lead if he caught us doing that.”

            “Just a thought.” Jo lowered herself onto the edge of the curb, and Dean flopped down beside her after a minute, the banter gone, both of them staring across the lonely street. Somewhere a few blocks down, a car rumbled by, tires swishing against the damp pavement.

            “I get what you mean.” Jo pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her ankles. “About getting sick of this life. A few rounds of watching our Kitsune get kicked into the dirt, and I just want to go home.”

            “She’s just a monster, though.” Dean ventured, fishing for Jo’s reaction. “I mean, getting kicked into the dirt’s kind of in the job description.”

            “Right.” Jo rolled her eyes. “That’s why you were pawing your way through that Pit looking for Sam.” When Dean didn’t respond, she blew out a steaming, cold breath. “I’m not here to judge you, Dean. He’s your monster, you can do what you want with him. Just don’t expect all of us to invite our fighters out for beers.”

            Dean’s hackles rose, instantly defensive. “S’like you said, your Kitsune pays the bills. You kinda owe her, right?”

            “We don’t kill her. That’s payment enough.”

            “Yeah, I guess.”

            Jo didn’t ask about Sam, and Dean was grateful for that much; he was wearing thin on explaining himself to people. It was hard enough trying to make it from fight to fight, feeling like everything was caught in a vicious cycle.

            “Still with me, Winchester?” Jo elbowed him, and Dean pulled away.

            “Uh-huh. Sorry, guess I was just, uh—”

            “Trying to figure out the point of all this?” Jo leaned sideways, her head on his shoulder. “I mean, even if we win—no matter how _many_ fights we win, the demons are still in charge. So we’re chasing our own asses in circles. They’ve got us playing their game like we’re pros.”

            Dean glanced down at her, but he couldn’t see her face; just the top of her head. “We are, kinda. I mean, look at us. Wasting gas on driving to these backass-nowhere places, putting monsters into fights just so they can get torn six ways from Sunday, and we start over again from scratch.”

            “I hate this life.” Jo murmured. “You know it, I know it, my mom knows it. I’m just her wingman.”

            “So why stick around?”

            Jo leaned her head back, their eyes meeting. “For my mom. Why else? She needs me. She just lost my dad, the bar closed, we had to leave New York…what would it do to her if I just _abandoned_ her?”

            Dean’s mouth tipped down at the corners, a gesture he’d found himself making more and more frequently the more time he spent around Sam; he rocked his head slowly from side to side.

            “Look, like it or not, the demons have us by the shortstack, Dean.” Jo said. “The best thing we can do, I mean, seriously, the best thing for any of us, is find a reason to keep fighting. Don’t give them the satisfaction of making us give up.”

            Like Dean’s grandfather had; like so many other Handlers had, the suicide rate among them higher than any ethnicity, social group, wealth bracket or occupation in the history of the known world. If anyone was keeping track, it might be considered genocide. But nobody kept track; it was the risks of the game.

            John had been on the edge, too, and now Dean felt himself toeing the line.

            Dean picked a shattered corner of the curb loose, flicking it into the street. “Sam’s gonna go up against your Kitsune tomorrow, y’know.”

            “The thought crossed my mind.”

            They stayed there, two lonely souls at the crossroads, as the frigid air swirled around them.

           

-X-

 

            The air frothed with the heady smell of booze and sweat; the corners writhed with people crawling on one another, either for a better view of the ring or in the search for physical pleasure. Sam had stopped trying to differentiate between the two a long time ago, instead letting it all run together in a murky haze, his focus on the arena.

            So much like a boxing ring; the monsters were barely contained inside the tiny roped-off center, pushed toward the front with the conclusion of each fight. Sam had already been in two matches, and he’d have one more before the end; a lighter, easier night, by general standards.

            Leaning against the bar counter, Sam burned with loneliness.

            Dean had left him, moving with Ellen and Jo for a better view of the ring. John lingered further down the bar, one eye on Sam, always vigilant; and while Sam was grateful to know he wasn’t completely adrift, left to his own devices, the feeling of being replaced smoldered gently in his chest, baking his throat raw.

            He knew Dean had slipped out the night before with Jo, and hadn’t come back until after sunrise; exhausted, eyes shadowed, falling into bed only to bounce onto his feet an hour later when John had roused him. Breakfast, Dean had stayed with Jo; now they were at the Pit, and he was gone again.

            Sam was stirred from his troubled thoughts by the appearance of a small, slender girl bending through the crowd to join him. Her hair was knotted back with strands that had swung loose, streaked wet with sweat. From the moment she stopped beside him, Sam smelled the fight hazing her skin.

            “It’s Sam, right?” Her eyes were a bright, pearly silver, her slit pupils seeming to twitch slightly as she stared at him. “I’m Julia.”

            “Hi, Julia,” Sam said with marginal discomfort, studying the arena through the chinks in elbows and bodies in front of him.

            “I just wanted to say, great fight out there. You went after that Garuda like it was a piece of cake. I can really appreciate that.”

            The open sincerity in her voice flushed off some of the awkwardness that was scrambling Sam’s thoughts. He focused on her, realizing as he did that she had an incredibly attractive face, and sharp, needle-like teeth.

            “Wait a second. Are you Jo’s Kitsune?”

            The line of Julia’s shoulders arched, then dropped, an inaudible sigh. “You could say that, yes. I’m hers.”

            “Well, great fight, yourself.” Sam replied enthusiastically. “You’re, like—a bullet train out there. The Selkie never got close.”

            “I’ve fought a few of them lately. Is it just me, or are water-natives becoming more and more popular in the ring?”

            “Right? I noticed that.”

            Julia smiled, leaning against the counter beside him. “So, your Handlers just let you off lead? Just like that?”

            “No offense, but you’re not exactly bound and chained, either.” Sam pointed out with a half-smile.

            “I couldn’t go very far.” Julia tugged up the hem of her lightweight shirt, showing a small bruised patch near her hip. “Insulin. Diabetes. My Handlers have my medicine.”

            “You’re kidding me.” Sam scoffed.

            “As if it’s not bad enough that we’re freaks, apparently we’re not immune to the common ailments that humans suffer through.”

            Sam didn’t miss the broad distinction in her statement, and blew out a breath that ruffled his bangs. “They’re not worried you’ll attack someone?”

            “They may not like me, but those Handlers know I’m not a savage. I value my life too much to throw it away on an escape attempt. Especially, considering I’d just die anyway if I tried to run.”

            “Sounds like a nasty catch-twenty-two.” Sam stood up straighter at the sound of tearing flesh and a howl of pain from one of the contestants in the ring.

            “It could be worse. If I’m on my best behavior, I survive between fights, at least.”

            Sam devoted his attention to her again, hearing the lilting note of sadness in her voice. “Jo’s decent to you, though, right?”

            “I’m a glorified slave. She feeds me, she shelters me, she’s not completely horrible. Sometimes I get the feeling she likes me.” Julia smiled wanly. “But no matter how hard we try, Sam, we’ll never be them. They’re humans, and we’re…”

            “Different?” Sam’s voice was clipped, an ironic smile carving itself into his cheeks, ridging dimples deep into the skin.

            “Exactly.” Julia lifted her chin at the sound of blood slapping the floor. “It’ll be us in there, pretty soon. And, Sam? I like you. You seem like a decent, sane monster. I wish it didn’t have to come to this.”

            And Sam’s world-view shifted back to the fight, to the close, cramped quarters, and to the knowledge that in seconds this civilized conversation would be a dream of the past as he and Julia ripped each other’s throats out.

            “Yeah. Me, too.”

            A flash of a dark jacket between pale skin, and Dean was on his way to join them, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Sam, you’re up!”

            Jo was right on his heels, stopping when she noticed Sam’s companion. “Looks like Julia found him.”

            “Good luck, both of you,” Ellen gave Julia’s shoulder a light squeeze.

            Sam shot Dean a glance, but Dean was absorbed in something else, staring at the Kitsune with his brows lowered, forehead crinkling with concentration. Sam felt an irrational, brutal burst of anger in his throat that he choked down like vomit.

            “C’mon, Julia.” He snagged her elbow. “Let’s go.”

            “Don’t touch me.” She shook him off, and just like that their roles became their allotment in life: competitors, enemies, two boxers in a match. No identity beyond their blood that would soon be coating the walls.

            Sam followed Julia into the ring, squeezing between bodies, their taunting, rabid cries ringing in his ears.

            A hand curled in the back of Sam’s jacket, stopping him, pulling him around, and he caught a glimpse of Julia stopping as well, waiting for him.

            “Sam.” Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked over his shoulder. “Look, do me a favor. Whatever happens in there, don’t kill this chick.”

            The thought of Julia’s razor-sharp teeth moving toward his throat made Sam’s eyes pop wide with disbelief. “ _What_?”

            “Just…Jo and Ellen need her. If she’s not winning fights, they go belly-up. I can’t let that happen.” Dean’s eyes reflected muddy brown from the lights overhead. “I owe these people. They’re like family.” When Sam didn’t answer, Dean hit him lightly on the chest with the back of his hand. “You owe me this much! Sam, c’mon. Please.”

            The fact that Dean was asking him to put another monster’s wellbeing before his own made Sam feel simultaneously furious and drained. Almost calm with resignation.

            “Right.” He turned his back on Dean and held up the roped side of the ring, letting Julia duck in before he followed her, to the gleeful clamor of the attendees. Sam’s fight, _this_ was the fight they’d been waiting for.

            Sam caught one last glimpse of Dean’s haggard face before the crowd swallowed tight like a closing mouth around him.

 

-X-

 

            If there was any round Dean wanted to step out of, it was this one.

            Watching Sam fight was sometimes like seeing poetry in motion; mostly because the contrast between him and the other fighters was so stark, so black-and-white, that it made Dean’s blood surge and his heart pound with exhilaration. Watching Sam come out on top, over and over again, moved like air in Dean’s lungs; it felt right, it made sense. Sam was supposed to win, he’d been born for it, even.

            Watching Sam step into the ring with Jo’s Kitsune left Dean’s stomach dissolving itself and his palms slick with sweat.

            He joined Ellen, Jo and John by the back bar, hopping up on the edge of the counter for a clear view of the narrow space where Sam faced the Kitsune, and they fell to circling. The anticipation thrumming in Dean’s chest wasn’t tinged with excitement this time; it was pure nervousness. It was standing on that edge again. It was knowing that Sam had never said _no_ to him, not once, about anything; and it was the guilt in admitting that maybe, in a way, he’d manipulated that when he’d asked Sam to spare his opponent’s life at any cost.

            But Dean was at the end of his rope, one more step and he’d be swinging; and Jo and Ellen needed the money.

            Like some silent signal had been raised that went unnoticed by the spectators, the two fighters came at each other, destructive forces of nature colliding in a closet-sized space. They were toe-to-toe, chest-to-chest, and Dean could see that while it wasn’t an even match, Sam had a slight disadvantage: the Kitsune was a fast fighter, in and away, and Sam’s skill-set required him to actually get a handle on her.

            Easier said than done.

            The first time Julia’s teeth raked Sam’s arm, splitting the first two layers of skin, Dean felt it sink into him, settle beneath the surface. Sam clipped the injured arm in tight and swirled away, planting a foot in her chest and knocking her back against the ropes. Julia rebounded against the tension of the straps, coming at Sam with quick feet and upraised hands.

            It was a vicious spinning machine of limbs and teeth, Julia slipping Sam’s holds as fast as he could lock her into them. Sam was good, he was fast, but she was faster; and Jujutsu was giving Sam more trouble than Dean had bargained for.

            He found himself sitting on the edge of the counter, rooting for Sam silently, conscious of the fact that Jo and Ellen had just as much to lose here as he did.

            Except they didn’t; the thought struck him with raw clarity. There was a difference between losing your source of income, and losing your brother.

            Jo’s hand clamped down on Dean’s on the edge of the counter as she hopped up beside him; Dean could see the tightness in every contour of her body, her face, the set of her jaw, the slant of her eyes. Banking so much on this fight, against each other. This was the first time Dean had ever found himself on Jo’s opposite side at a fight; before, when they’d been Bill’s living shadows, that’d always rooted for his monster. And later, sneaking into Pits, they’d picked a fighter they both liked and laid their hopes on that.

            Never in conflict; always in synchrony.

            Everything was changing again.

            Dean heard a startled cry of pain from Sam, his head snapping up in time to see Julia leap back, spitting a mouthful of Sam’s hair. Blood trickled down from the bald patch on Sam’s scalp as he piled into Julia, ramming her into the ropes and hooking her legs out from under her. She went down with Sam on top of her, his hands poised around her neck.

            And froze.

            Like a magnet, like centrifugal force, drawing, always, Sam’s eyes picked Dean out above the crowd.

            Jo’s hand tightened around Dean’s; knowing what was coming. Knowing the logical course of action. Snapping Julia’s neck wouldn’t kill her, Kitsune were built tough, like most monsters. But there were people overseeing the fight, waiting in the wings with knives and silver and iron; waiting to create a turnover from a disabled monster into profit for the Pit.

            Selfishness and selflessness colliding, Dean and Sam were frozen, the world swirling around them.         

            Julia clamped her teeth on Sam’s hand, her fingers digging into his neck, and with one solid punch Sam snapped her head sideways, knocking her out, and sprang off of her.

            There was a smattering of faint surprise and disapproval from the audience, the low, unhappy murmurs of those robbed of a good show. Jo’s fingers flexed, loosening from Dean’s.

            “What just happened?” She sounded flabbergasted, confused.

            “Sam just saved your ass.” Dean slid off the counter, moving toward the ring, but by the time he made it to the ropes Sam was already gone, and the fight was breaking up, distilled with angry mutterings from the onlookers. Ellen passed Dean, pulling Julia up off the floor and bearing her toward the door.

            “See you outside?” Jo asked, and Dean scanned the room.

            “Yeah, just gimmie a minute. I gotta find Sam.”

            There were only two possible exits, a front door and a back door; and since Dean hadn’t seen Sam slipping out past them, the only other possibility was that he’d gone out the back.

            Dean punched the double doors out with his flat hands and the strength behind his shoulders, stepping out into a cold, clear afternoon.

            Sam was alone, head high and one hand staunching the flow of blood from the other, standing in the alley behind the bar with his back to the door. Dean smacked him lightly on the shoulder and motioned with his head. “C’mon, let’s go.”

            Sam planted his feet, looking tougher with that blood dripping between his fingers than he should have, dressed in nothing but jeans, a t-shirt and socks. “No.”

            “Sam, we don’t have time for this. Dad’s waiting for us.”

            “I said, _no_ , Dean.” Sam snapped.

            Dean shut the door and crossed his arms. “What’s your problem?”

            “ _My_ problem?” Sam echoed disbelievingly. “What the hell happened back there, Dean? You asked me to spare the life of something that was trying to _kill_ me.”

            Dean grimaced. “Look, you’re alive, she’s alive…do we really need to divide this down to lowest common denominator, here?”

            Sam pulled that blank-eyed, corkscrew-mouth glare that could wilt wildflowers. “I do _everything_ you ask me to; I’ve never let you down. Not _once_. But we can’t always be _different_ , Dean. You can’t just ask me to pull my punches when someone wants me dead. Dean, you _can’t_.”

            “This was a special case, all right? Jo and Ellen needed her _alive_.” Dean rebuffed furiously. “What was I supposed to do, huh?”

            “It’s not just this one time, Dean! You’ve been different for weeks! Distant. Out of focus. It’s like you’re not even there, man.”

            Dean rolled his eyes and swiveled for the door. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

            Sam gripped his arm, yanking Dean around to face him. “Dean, stop. Please. Listen, you’re the one who’s watching my back. If I don’t have you, then I’m—” Sam broke off, dropping his hand, looking away. “If it’s supposed to be us against the world—you, and me, and your mom and dad—then I need to know that we’re all looking out for each other. I need to know that you’re not just gonna switch sides if something better comes along.”

            “What are you talking about, _sides_? We’re all on the _same side_!”

“Really? Because last I checked, I was fighting _against_ Julia. Like it or not, this fight pits people against each other, Dean. That’s what it’s all about. And I have to know for sure that you’re still on _my_ side. That you’re not gonna turn your back on me like everyone else did.”

 Dean’s throat caught. “It’s not gonna happen again.” Sam offered him a look of disbelief, and Dean reiterated, fiercely, “It’s not! All right? Look, I just said it was a special case. We’re business as usual from now on. Got it?”

            “Not every monster is gonna go easy on Julia just because she’s Ellen and Jo’s.” Sam said. “Remember that.”

            He led the way around the edge of the building, Dean a few steps behind, left with that same sour snag in his chest.

            Ellen and Jo were just loading the still-unconscious Julia into the back of their van when Sam and Dean joined them. Ellen slammed the back door of the van, turned to Sam and held out her hand. “I owe you one, sweetie. Thanks.”

            “Don’t mention it.” Sam’s face pulled tight with sadness as he shook her hand.

            “You guys on your way out?” Dean asked, avoiding Jo’s eyes.

            “Yeah, sorry to cut and run, but we got another fight to make in Baltimore tomorrow. It’s gonna be a long drive.” Ellen glanced around. “Where’s John?”

            “Probably collecting our winnings. The man hates goodbye speeches.” Dean said.

            “Well, good thing he isn’t here, then, because I got a little warning for you.” Ellen laid her hands on his shoulders, meeting Dean’s gaze squarely, unblinkingly. “You watch yourself out there, Dean. It’s a nasty business, and you boys are shooting straight for the top. Now, those demons are smart; they’ve got their eye on Sam. And their side holds all the cards. So you keep your family close, keep them safe. Understand me?”

            “Yes, ma’am.” Dean nodded.

            Ellen patted him gently on the cheek. “For what it’s worth, Dean, you make a helluva Handler. Biggest heart I’ve ever seen working the circuit, and that’s saying something. Bill would’ve been proud of you.”

            Dean caught a glimpse of Jo turning her head away, and his skin prickled. “Yeah. Thanks.” He smiled tightly, waiting for Ellen to turn to Sam before he approached Jo. “So. Guess this is goodbye again, huh?”

            Jo scissored her hair behind her ear with two fingers. “Ever wish we could be back in New York, where everything was simpler?”

            “You kidding me? New York was hell.” Dean scoffed, and Jo raised her eyebrows. With a glance Sam’s way, Dean sighed. “Yeah, sometimes. But, y’know, this is my life now. My mom, my dad, Sam…it’s all I’ve got.”

            “You’ve always got me, Winchester.”

            “And our intersection.” Dean smirked. Before Jo could reply, he added, quickly, “Hey, sorry you guys lost. I know you needed the money.”

            “We scraped by pretty good on our last fight, we’re set until Baltimore. Besides, if anyone else had to win, I’m glad it was Sam.” Jo smiled, for the first time since they’d met up the night before, a real, genuine and soft smile. “He seems like he has a good heart.”

            “Sam? Kid’s got a heart of gold.” Dean agreed. “Just wish I could find out what the hell he is.”

            “He’s still Faceless?”

            “Yep.”

            “Maybe you’d rather not know,” Jo said, and the double meaning of the words wasn’t lost on Dean. He scratched the back of his neck.

            “Yeah, maybe not.” Answering both.

            And awkward pause spanned between them, and Dean realized that there were a dozen things unsaid, unaddressed, suspended between them. Things they didn’t have time for right now, the fight that had brought them together as kids now dragging them apart.

Jo cleared her throat, at length. “Well, hey, maybe we’ll cross paths again sometime on the circuit, huh?” Her tone was light.

            “I kinda hope not.” Dean admitted quietly, and a flicker of understanding passed through Jo’s eyes. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, a warm hug in the middle of a cold day, and Dean rested his cheek on her hair.

            They stayed that way until Dean heard John approaching, the thud of bootsteps breaking the spell. He stepped back, clearing his throat.

            “See you around, Winchester.” Jo said, cocking a smile. “Next time, maybe Sam can afford to get his ass kicked.”

            “Yeah, we’ll see.” Dean gave her a two-fingered sideways salute. “Take care of yourself, blondie.”

            Ellen shook John’s hand, nodded to Dean to reinforce her earlier warning, and they climbed into the van. In a cloud of exhaust, the bulky black vehicle peeled away into the street, disappearing rapidly from view.

            “So,” Sam asked quietly, “What happens now?”

            “Now we go home.” John started toward the Impala, then stopped, looking back. “You made a lotta people angry in there, Sam. A lotta paying customers who came to see something die.”

            “Yes, sir.” Sam said, standing straighter, taller; not defiant, but accepting what he’d done, and accepting any consequence that came with it.

            A smile tugged at John’s face. “Breaking rules is a family tradition.”

            Sam’s face relaxed into a reciprocating grin. “Yes, sir.”

            Dean hung back, watching as Sam followed John to the car; and found himself facing the thing he’d been blinded to by Chelsea’s death, by training, by Jo and Ellen and his own emotions clouding his judgment: that John was finally accepting Sam, letting him in for what he was; that Mary had extended the same unbridled reception to John. And that the hardest part of anything he’d faced was in knowing that his own secrets still lay buried under the surface.

            Though they were coming out, now; Jo and Ellen’s short cameo in the fight had brought things to the surface that Dean had only divulged to Bobby and Sam.

            Jo’s words from the night before came rushing back to him; her admonition that he find something worth fighting for, something to keep him from going down the dark path that thousands of Handlers before him had traveled. Dean didn’t know many things, about himself or the world around him, but he knew that the thought of dying for this lifestyle honestly terrified him.

            “Dean!” Sam’s voice jarred him from his thoughts; like always, Sam was waiting by the car. Waiting for Dean to slide in before he would clamber into the backseat for the long car-ride back to Lawrence. “You coming?”

            Eyes squinted, face scrunched against the sunlight reflecting off the Impala’s glossy roof, Sam waited for him.

            Chelsea, and the Harvelles, and even Bobby; they were people Dean cared about, however briefly, in Chelsea’s case. But they weren’t the ones there after every fight; they weren’t the warm hands on his forehead when he was sick, the fists that pounded him to dust when he needed to fight, the brutality that rounded him out and made him polished and strong.

            That was home; that was his family.

            That was the only thing that mattered; protect Mary, protect John, protect Sam. Keep them alive, safe. Take care of them.

            “Dean?” Sam repeated, with more concern now.

            “Yeah, Sammy, I’m comin’.”

Dean joined him by the car, dropping down into the passenger’s seat. Their doors slammed in unison, and Dean angled himself to face John.

“Hey, dad, when we get home, you think we could sit down and actually have a family dinner, for once?”

            “New York making you sentimental, Dean?” John teased, starting the car.

            “Not really.” Dean propped his elbow on the windowsill. “Just some things we gotta talk about. Some stuff I think you and mom oughta know.”

           

           

 


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Sixteen: Country Roads

 

            The bright silver flash of the dogtags pummeled Dean’s chest as Sam pinned him flat on the grass.

            “Call it,” Sam grinned, one hand on Dean’s throat; his hair almost brushed Dean’s nose, long tips saturated with mud and sweat and grass.

            “We’re not done yet, pal.” Dean bucked his hips against Sam’s weight, surging over, flipping him onto his back and bracing an arm across his chest, his knee digging across Sam’s pelvis. “Come on, slither loose!”

            Sam took the challenge, rolling, Dean’s knee slipping into the dip beneath his ribcage. His elbow came up, hard, plunging into Dean’s stomach and winding him, and Sam smacked Dean down flat on his back again with both hands. In the same fluid movement, Sam scooted around behind him and wrangled him into a sleeper-hold.

            There was something adrenaline-sweet and fear-inducing about having his oxygen cut off, something that had Dean tapping out two seconds later. Sam released him and fell back, letting Dean up onto his feet, coughing in air.

            “Not bad, Sammy!” Dean pulled in deep lungfuls of air, grinning.

            The seasons in Kansas had finally taken a turn for warmer, with spring in full-swing. Even with two extra weeks of Jujutsu training to make sure Sam had it under control, they were progressing easily into Kajukenbo, and that made things flow more smoothly; that particular breed of hybrid martial arts was a lot more of quick jabs and pulls that feinted on the side of sparring, and when it came down to it, that was what they were both good at: a good old-fashioned, well-planned wrestling match.

            Dean moved a little stiff, a little sore, when he straightened up; Kajukenbo focused a lot of its movements on joint-breaking, and while Sam always pulled his punches, sometimes in the heat of a match he couldn’t pull back enough. Dean limped over to Sam and dragged him to his feet.

            “You okay?” Sam asked, real concern in his eyes.

            “I’m freakin’ fantastic. You’re taking this crap in like it’s pudding. How the hell’d you get so good?” Dean clapped Sam on the arm, and Sam smiled a little awkwardly.

            “I was kinda born for it, I guess.”

            “Well, cut it out. You’re making me look bad.”

            Sam’s smile became full fledged as Dean grabbed his shirt off the porch railing and shrugged into it. “Right. So, what’s next?”

            “Next, we take a break. That fight last night was crazy, I want you taking some time off.”

            “Dean, it was just another Akki—”

            “That thing almost squashed you flatter than a pancake, Sam. No. You’re taking a couple days off.”

            Sam looked like he was on the verge of complaining, and then he deflated. “Yeah, okay. I could use a break…I guess.”

            Dean felt a small prickle of irritation that Sam wasn’t bucking him on this.

            Things had been interesting since Portal, to say the least; coming clean about what had happened in New York, Dean had been positive that a few years younger and Mary would’ve grounded him from the fights. As it was, she’d almost called Ellen up with a few choice words that would’ve made a sailor blush; John had had to talk her down, and only John had been able to because for once, Mary couldn’t fault him in the situation. He’d been just as oblivious as she was.

            Dean had volunteered by pain of death to stay home when Sam and John had gone to a fight in Alabama; and that was when Mary had sat him down, looked him in the eyes, and asked him what he really wanted. Not what John wanted, not what Sam or Mary needed; but the things Dean had always held out for himself.

            Dean had thought that answer to that should be difficult, something he’d have to consider and soul-search for. But what he found himself saying was, “I just want to make it through this, mom. You, and me, and dad, I want us to be a family again. Sam, too. I wanna get past the whole monsters and Faceless thing. The fight’s crap, it’s a broken system. And I wanna make sure all four of us come out swinging on the other side.”

            Mary had accepted that, then slapped him hard on one cheek and told him that keeping secrets wasn’t how families stuck together, it was what tore them apart, and if he ever pulled a stunt like that again, so help her, she _would_ ground him if it meant chaining him to his bed.

            She’d made good on that threat once or twice when he’d snuck out, before.

            But she hadn’t kept him from the fight, either; maybe she was behaving a little more coolly toward him, but Dean was content, for the most part, to give her space. The story about New York hadn’t even been complete, he’d left out fragments; things that nobody needed to know. Things he’d seen that were emblazoned on his mind, tattooed behind his eyes. Things he still had nightmares about.

            Pits were cesspools, crapholes, they were downright scary, and Dean put every purpose of his life into being there to back John and Sam up when things started to get out of hand.

            Standing by the porch, a warm gust of air passing him by, Dean felt the hair-rising sensation of being _watched_. He turned to face the road, the copse of forest beyond, still with that tight-throated, wary feeling. He’d had it for days on end, almost every time they trained now, or went for a run. A crawling, all-eyes-on-me alertness.

            But for the first time, there was almost a sensation of malice that came with it.

            Sam carded a hand back through his chestnut hair, caught Dean’s intent gaze, and followed it. “Dean?” When he didn’t receive a reply, Sam stepped up beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the road. “What is it?”

            “Not sure.” Dean said, twitching his head slightly Sam’s way. “Let’s stick around the ranch today, huh?”

            “Yeah. Sure.” Sam frowned; Dean wasn’t sure if Sam was worried for him, or if he’d picked up on that itchy feeling of intent, too.

            Seconds elapsed; then Dean, shaking the feeling off with a wag of his head, hit Sam lightly on the shoulder in passing. “C’mon, let’s take a driving lesson.”

            “Aw, Dean…man, c’mon.” Sam protested, trailing after him. “Last time I almost crashed your truck into the house.”

            “Exactly. Which is why you’ve gotta practice, Sam. Don’t worry, like I said, we’ll stick to the yard.” Dean pulled out the keys, holding them up and giving them a rattle. Action before thought; consequence came first.

            Sam froze, staring at him.

            Dean stopped, too, wishing he could absorb the sound into his own body. “Crap.” He returned to Sam, grabbing the side of his neck, shaking him lightly. “Sam, snap out of it. C’mon, man, I’m right here. This is it, right? It’s you and me. Not Lilith, not Azazel, not six months ago. Right here, right now.”

            Sam didn’t move, his eyes still fixed on some point above Dean’s shoulder, living through a hidden horror. Dean didn’t move his hand, morbidly fascinated by the feeling of Sam’s pulse increasing under his fingertips.

            The screen door opened and John leaned out. “You boys finished up for the day?” He caught sight of Sam, rigid, immobile, Dean beside him, and his brows dipped with worry. “What happened?”

            “Keys.” Dean replied tautly. “Sam, that’s enough. Come on now— _Sammy_!”

            The word seemed to hit Sam like an electric jolt, startling him. He blinked a few times, one hand snaking on, gripping Dean’s sleeve. “Dean?”

            “Welcome back, space-case.”

            “I….” Sam’s gaze swept the lawn, settled on John. “Real?”

            “It’s real, Sammy, you kinda took a vacation back down memory lane. But we’re good. Right? You’re good?”

            “Yeah.” Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably, nodded, loosed his grip on Dean’s shirt and stepped back. “I’m fine, I’m good. Sorry.”

            “No need to apologize, Sam.” John leaned his crossed arms on the porch railing. “You can’t help what goes on in your head.”

            Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded, sheepish again, embarrassed. “So, uh…driving lesson?”

            Dean watched him, carefully. “You sure?”

            “M’sure.”

            “Well, all right then.” Dean passed him the keys, making sure they didn’t rattle. “You remember the whole thing with the clutch?”

            “Uh-huh, I think so.”

            “You grind my gears, you’re a dead man.”

            Sam passed a smile his way that Dean found entirely unconvincing.

            John lingered on the porch, watching them with wind-tugged hair. Thoughtfulness shadowed his dark eyes.

 

-X-

           

Sleeplessness haunted the corners of Dean’s mind.

Sam’s fortieth fight was fast approaching, and they’d already picked a venue: Amsterdam, or what used to be. It was rumored to be one of the bigger Pits, with demonic eyes on it from all sides, talk stirring that it would join the ranks of the big cities someday, a hive of monsters and money and flashy arenas. But not yet; now it was just an attractive, if removed, outlet for the rowdiness of its attendees. And even if they rubbed Dean wrong, still, the fight in Portal had made up his mind. He was sticking in close with his family, and if that meant swallowing the big pill and putting up with all of the vitriol that swarmed around fights, then so be it.

Tonight, though, things felt overwrought; the memory of Sam’s reaction the rattle of the keys lingering, not to mention the disastrous driving lesson that had almost ended with the truck’s nose buried in the shed. Sam was distracted, he wasn’t enjoying time off like he was supposed to. There were still too many mitigating factors, circumstances that drove them both up the wall; even if things were on even keel with John and Mary, outside forces drove wedges into the reprieve that their life was supposed to be, in between fights, away from the Pits.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Dean rolled out of bed and landed with his feet in his shoes, pulling on his hoodie. If he couldn’t sleep, he figured, he might as well put a stop to the chaos that was clamoring for control inside his head. He grabbed his guitar case from the corner and headed to Sam’s room.

He found it empty, bed still made from that morning. Frowning, Dean clumped his way down the stairs, making an effort to tread softer when he noticed John was asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes. There was a dim light flickering in the kitchen, and Dean followed it to its source.

Sam was reading by the lantern’s glow, cheek propped on his fist, his fingertip scrolling a block-sized paragraph of text. Dean was an accomplished reader himself, but sometimes Sam’s stamina with research surprised even him.

Dean heaved the guitar case up and settled it hard on the table, startling Sam so hard he rocked the chair back on two legs.

“Dean! What are you _doing_?”

“Nothin’. What’re _you_ doing?” Dean flopped down in the chair across from Sam, resting one arm along the body of the guitar case and propping his chin on his elbow.

Sam puffed out a breath and pushed the book toward Dean. “Just something about monsters. I dunno.” The light cast pools of shadow around his eyes. “You ever notice how no one’s written about demons?”

“Maybe ’cause no one knows enough about ’em to write a manual.” Dean hung his hand over the book, tapping his fingers restlessly down the page.

“Maybe.” Sam didn’t sound convinced, but pensively thoughtful.

Silence spilled in, and then Dean sat back, grabbing the guitar case and swinging it over his shoulder. “C’mon, we’re goin’ for a drive.” When he caught Sam’s nervous glance, Dean rolled his eyes. “Relax, Mad Max. _I’m_ driving.”

That seemed to appease Sam; he shut the book and dimmed the lantern, getting to his feet with a stretch. “Just let me grab my jacket.”

Dean waited for him, impatient, fingers tapping his leg, until Sam came back downstairs sliding his arms into the sleeves of his coat; for half a second, Dean could see the blunt black rash of the brand on Sam’s arm.

“That ever hurt anymore?” He asked, nodding to it.

Sam followed Dean’s gesture, and shrugged. “I guess I’m used to it.”

“Hn.” Dean let the memories of that day slip away. “C’mon, shag ass.”

Dean had the front door open when John’s voice rumbled from the couch: “Where do you boys think you’re going?”

They both stopped cold in their tracks, like overexcited children caught sneaking downstairs to wait for Santa on Christmas Eve. “Out.” Dean said, then added, “Just goin’ for a drive.”

He was ramping himself up for an argument, but John just rolled over, letting his arm flop from his eyes. “Try not to make a ruckus when you come back in.”

Dean tossed Sam a grin, and pounced out the door.

The night was balmy, the trees budding and the grass finally regaining some of its lush green cast as spring returned to the Midwestern states. They drove with the windows cranked down, Sam with his hand out the window, making airwaves. Dean kept a vigilant eye swiveling from the rearview mirror to the windshield, but the uncomfortable sensation of being watched had long since faded.

“You worried about Amsterdam?” Dean asked after a while, his lungs filled with the heady taste of the air.

“Not really.” Sam said, but the quickness of the answer had Dean guessing otherwise.

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’re up after midnight trying to find something about demons in dad’s books, right?” He prodded, and Sam stared determinedly out the window. “Demons or no demons, it’s gonna be fine, Sam.”

“It wasn’t last time,” Sam’s words took Dean back to the snowy roadside and the car accident that had almost killed the three of them.

“All right, so the demons caught us on an off day. So what?” Sam shot him a disbelieving glance, and Dean arched his shoulders against the seatback. “Yeah, that’s right. _So what_? They can bring it, we’re still gonna kick their asses to the curb.”

“’Cause that’s always worked out _so well_ for us before.”

“We’re still breathing, right?” When Sam didn’t answer, Dean reached over and clapped him on the knee. “Hey, as long as I’m around, nothing bad’s gonna happen to you. Hear me?”

“I hear you.” Sam’s voice was unusually husky, like he’d taken Dean’s banter and melded it into himself, changing it into something more profound. Dean let it go; he wasn’t in the mood to pursue some touchy-feely moments.

They drove until they lost the road, until they were separated by a sea of black night and dim fog from any trace of civilization. Dean killed the engine, leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, drawing in air until his lungs felt too full to expand anymore. Then he held it.

And then he let it out in a rush of, “I feel good, Sam.”

He felt Sam’s cock-eyed, crossways glance. “Okay?”

“After that whole thing with Jo?” Dean tapped his fingers sporadically on the steering wheel. “And telling my mom and dad about New York, I kinda felt like I was takin’ some kinda jump, y’know? Do or die, something had to change.”

Sam shifted on the seat, angling toward him. “And did it?”

Dean slid a sideways glance toward Sam, his near-constant companion for six months, and he smirked. “Not a damn thing.”

He climbed out, pulling his guitar with him and slamming the door. By the time he vaulted into the bed of the truck, Sam was out with him, folding himself over the edge and sitting on the wheel-cap across from Dean. He watched Dean pull the guitar out, a slight smile dimpling one cheek, his head cocked.

“How come every time you can’t sleep, I don’t get to sleep, either?”

Dean concentrated on tuning his guitar. “Because I feed you, shelter you and save your ass. The least you can do is entertain me.”

“I should’ve brought my dancing shoes.”

“Dude,” Dean said. “We both know you can’t dance.”

Sam smiled, shrugging out of his jacket and dropping it on the floor between his feet. He leaned his elbows back on the rim of the truck. “Good point.”

When he was satisfied with the sound that the strum of his fingers elicited from the guitar, Dean slouched with his back against the side of the truck. He hummed a few chords, his fingers flowing seamlessly into the notes of the song as it jumped to his mind.

It was one of the easiest he knew, and one of the ones he’d been playing the longest; when Sam had first come to them, sick and mute with Mary changing his bandages every day, Dean had sat in the corner and played this song until his fingers were scraped raw, and throbbed.

John Denver’s _Country Roads_ , expressing insomnia and wanderlust and homecoming, everything that had been trapped inside his chest like a second pulse for months on end. Dean let it flow out into familiar lyrics, fingers floating up and down the neck of the guitar, sensations of tingling movement and lack of stillness giving way to loosening, to a peaceful laxity in his chest.

The next thing he knew, Sam was singing along; quietly, but with a genuine smile on his face, harmonizing like they’d done this a million times. Two voices wrapping around each other, synchronistic, smooth, belonging. Dean winked at Sam, then leaned his head back, belting the words out to the open sky.

            And Dean decided, right then, that all of this was worth it; the fights, the uncertainty, a house lit by a hand-crank lantern and all the grating and tension that came from a broken family trying to fit the pieces back together.

            For moments like this, it was worth it. Moments about country roads and places of belonging; places Dean was convinced he’d already found.

            Boots brushing, heads leaned back to trace the stars, and smiling, they started the song over again, never once falling out of harmony.

            And that, Dean figured, was worth it.

 

-X-

 

            If John Winchester didn’t already despise himself, then he was going to by the end of the day; of that he was completely sure.

            He sat on the front stoop, his leather jacket hanging like a mantel over his shoulders. He swirled the keys to the Impala around one finger, caught them, swirled them back the other way, caught them again. A constant rotation. A cycle.

            The door pushed open behind him and Mary stepped out, bumping her knee lightly against his back. “Are you sure about this, John?”

            “No, Mare, I’m not sure.” John folded his hands and rested his chin on them, glancing up at her sideways, one eye shut against the bright sunlight. “But what other choice do I have? He’s got to learn. And Dean’s not helping him.”

            “You don’t know how deep or painful these memories might be, John. You could push him into some sort of psychological fit. Trap him in his memories, reliving whatever Lilith did to him, over and over.”

            “That won’t happen.” John said, with more confidence than he actually felt.

            “How can you be sure?”

            The distant rattle of the barn doors opening floated across the yard, and with  unease curdling in his gut, John got to his feet. “Because he’s a tough son of a bitch.” He slid one foot to the next step down, half-turning toward Mary. “You worry about Dean. I’ll handle Sam.”

            Mary’s mouth went tight, white-ringed at the edges, but she nodded; John felt a surge of gratefulness riding through his veins, that she would follow his lead on this. Even if it gave him the nauseated swoop of being the villain again, pitted against both Dean and Sam.

            He saw them approaching across the yard, Sam still shadowing Kajukenbo moves on Dean, who reciprocated with a nod. Despite getting in late the night before—or early, depending on how you looked at it—they didn’t look an inch tired. Whereas John felt the weight of fatigue crumbling him in light of what he had to do.

            “Yo, dad!” Dean caught sight of him and gave an offhanded salute.

            “Dean.” John nodded to him. “You mind heading inside and helping your mother out? She’s got some stuff to move into the attic.”

            “Yup, no problem.” Dean changed course toward the house, with Sam trailing behind him. For a single second, John let himself believe that he was going to pass on the opportunity; that he was going to let Sam go inside and pretend this exercise had never crossed his mind.

            But the simple, blatant truth was that Dean coddled Sam to some extent, where fear came into play; and John had to take the fall, willingly, had to sacrifice; sacrifice, to make sure that his family could survive.

            “Just a minute, there, Sam,” John said to his retreating back. “I need to have a word with you.”

            And he whirled the keys around his finger.

            Sam stopped like he’d come face-to-face with a brick wall. On the top step, Dean turned, Mary’s hand on his shoulder.

            “What’s going on?” Dean’s suspicious eyes didn’t miss the glimmer of the keychain in John’s grip, and whatever expression had taken over Sam’s face put him on further alert.

            “He has to learn,” John began, giving the keys another whirl, stepping closer to Sam. “And this is how we do it.”

            “Are you crazy?” Dean snapped, and from the corner of his eye John saw Mary squeeze his shoulder.

            “Just wait, Dean.” She murmured.

            John slid another foot closer to Sam, whirling the keys faster, now, jangling them together, and Sam didn’t move. “Sam needs to realize he’s not in any danger. That this is just a sound and it can’t hurt him. Right, Sam?”

            Sam could’ve been a mannequin pieced together in front of their house, not an inch of him moving except for his hair, stirring in the breeze. John stopped behind him and gave the keys a shake, right over Sam’s shoulder.

            Sam jerked violently like John had waved a loaded pistol at him; swinging around, facing John, with the terrified eyes of an animal, and his hand rubbing frantically at his arm.

            “ _Don’t_.” The word strangled from Sam’s mouth, a childlike plea that felt too young, coming from a man almost Dean’s age.

            John’s resolve wavered, again, and again, he squashed it. “It’s just _keys_ , Sam.” He whirled them around. “Just keys to open doors. Start an engine.”

            “Don’t,” Sam repeated. “Please, don’t.”

            The realization struck John that Sam wasn’t addressing him; he was focused, completely, on whatever memory had been conjured by the sound.

            “That’s enough, dad!” Dean pulled out of Mary’s reach and she was down the steps in two long strides, facing Dean with her hand on his chest.

            “ _Wait,_ Dean.” Her tone left no room for argument.

            Sam sank to his knees in front of John, visible tremors racking his body. The keys continued to revolve around John’s finger, the clamoring of their impact filling the air, and Sam dug his fists into the soil, anchoring himself.

            The only sounds that escaped Sam’s mouth were a glottal clicking, like a man being strangled; he gagged. Sam’s eyes stared at nothing, his gaze slack, breaths rasping from his lungs. The picture of fear trapped inside of itself, fenced into four sides of memory. John’s mind painted its own gruesome picture; Sam, docile, a lover more than a fighter at his core, being dragged from his cage. Sam, the chime of keys or chains filling his ears as he faced another inbred monster, a demon’s prize fighter. Sam’s bones snapping, Sam’s blood spilling, all heralded by the sound of agony’s approach.

            John dropped the keys and knelt, gripping Sam’s shoulders, leaning over him. “I know you’re in there, Sam. Locked up inside whatever hellhole Lilith put you in. And you can hate us, you can hide from us inside what happened to you. Or you can sack up, and win this fight. Believe me,” He snagged Sam’s chin, pulling his head up. “What you’re facing right now, _this_ will be the most important fight of your life.”

            Sam shuddered in John’s grip, eyes unfocused, lost somewhere in the torrid story of his past. John cussed, sweeping the keys off the ground and holding them in front of Sam’s face.

            “They’re just keys, Sam! They can’t hurt you, they don’t have the power. You’re not scared of this sound, you’re scared of what’s out there. Tulsa. Amsterdam. You can lie to Dean, but you can’t lie to me. I know what’s goin’ on in there.”

            Sam seemed completely deaf to John’s voice, his arm crossing over his body to grip to the back of his shoulder, like there was some bloody wound there to staunch, some injury to guard.

            John grabbed Sam’s hand and slammed it palm-down on the ground. “Don’t you dare run away from this.”

            Mary and Dean no longer existed in the sphere of the world that had shrunk to John and Sam, crouched on the grass. John pressed a hand over Sam’s heart, feeling the wild beat beneath, and he felt a sudden rush of something that wasn’t affection, wasn’t possessiveness, but it came through with crystal clarity all the same: Sam was _not_ going to shirk his hold on reality, he was _not_ going to be defeated by sounds or sights or memories. There was a brand on his arm, a name to live up to, a family he couldn’t let down. Not now, not after they’d come this far.

            “You feel this?” John asked, giving Sam’s chest the slightest shove. “You remember what Dean told you? Keep this beating, and nothing else matters.” John edged a little closer on his knees. “Forget everything I ever said about trading you out. You’re staying here, Sam. We’re not letting up on you just yet.”

            Sam’s head ducked, and he shivered again, violently.

            “Now, we need you.” John intoned. “Fast and strong, out there, fighting. So you take that fear, and you make it bow to _you_. You beat that fear, Sam, and you can take on anything these fights throw your way. You hear me?”

            A sudden, dull _thwock_ of pain traveled through John’s jaw, and he fell back ass-end on the ground, realizing belatedly that Dean had slipped around Mary, and now John had a welt the size and shape of Dean’s fist forming on his jaw. Dean was standing over him, weight on the balls of his feet, looking good and ready to land another punch or two or five. Seething mad, the air around him practically steaming with it.

            “You’re an asshole.” Dean snarled, and then he crouched beside Sam, moving seamlessly into the motions of trying to rouse him from his memories. But Sam was already coming around on his own, some of the fear slaking, same of the lucidity returning to his eyes, swaying him back toward the present.

            His eyes, on John, wide and overbright. And he nodded, just slightly.

            And something unidentified shifted and changed between them.

 

-X-

           

The end of everything began in a back alley in Amsterdam. 

It was a madhouse of cars, all clinching together, crammed nose-to-bumper into the narrow slot between buildings. Back doors thrown wide, the humming, spine-scraping screech of death-metal music roared through the Pit. John felt a headache coming on before he’d even hefted himself from the car; and it was bound to get worse.

And almost immediately, it did.

Though the doors were thrown wide, they were gated; and on the far side of the gate was perched the oil-haired, predator-sleek and soft-faced check-in who’d harassed John like none other that he’d crossed.

“Winchester.”

“Crowley.” John leaned his flat palms on the table. “I should’ve known I’d see you crawling around here. Your kind has their ugly eyes all over this city, don’t they?”

“Sticks and stones, my moronic friend.” Crowley shuffled through a stack of laminated, numbered cards. “I see your Sam is still with you.”

“Better get used to it, he’s not goin’ anywhere.” A challenge clearly flavored Dean’s voice as he slouched against the Impala, hands in his pockets.

“There are at least half a dozen beasties inside who would disagree with you, mate.” Crowley passed John a card. “What’s your buy-in bet?”

John weighed his trust in Sam against the presence of the demons and the money they had to spare. “I’ll put two hundred.”

“Playing it safe,” Crowley observed mildly. “Hm.” He jotted down the number. “Two hundred it is, then. I see you learned your lesson after what happened in Tulsa.”

John felt a sweep of anger ratcheting through his body, all the possible insinuations behind that statement stacking themselves together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mind your blood-pressure.” Crowley retorted. “The monsters are being held in the basement. You can take your little champion down there.”

John glanced at Dean, at Sam, then stepped through the gate as two bouncer-types unchained the padlock.

The inside of the building was vibrating with the echoes of the music, guitar chords screeching like wounded cats while a throaty voice imitated perfectly the dry-heaving, pre-vomit sounds of someone on an alcoholic binge. John resisted the urge to muffle his ears with his hands, pushing his way through the crowd and following hand-painted signs directing them toward the basement.

A side door led to a urine-yellow, poorly-lit staircase funneling down into darkness. John waited until Sam and Dean had joined him before he shut the door against the audible blast of music, relieved to have it suppressed, even just slightly.

“You ready?” John addressed Sam, didn’t even spare a glance for Dean; things were back on thin ice between them again, after John had pushed Sam careening into his memories the week before.

Sam nodded, but his eyes betrayed otherwise, fixed on the maw of blackness that was the basement at the foot of the stairs.

“I’ll stay with him.” Dean’s eyes slid briefly to John, then away.

“No. Not in a room full of—” Sam cut off, shaking his head. “You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

“Dean, Sam’s right.” John took his chances on winning a little bit of Dean’s good graces back by deferring to Sam’s logic before his own. “You’re a Handler. Whatever’s in there could tear you apart on principle alone.”

            “You oughta listen to your daddy, Deano.” The coarse voice, oozing false concern, dripped down from the stairs that arced over their heads. “Someone could get hurt.”

            A bolt of tension speared John to the spot for a second before he turned, facing the descent of boots, the flap of a long overcoat.

            “Azazel.” He said, stiffly; a warning, a greeting, a threat all mottled into one dry, growling word.

            “John Winchester. It’s been too long.” Azazel’s molten yellow eyes refracted the light, almost blended into it, making his gaze seem fully, dusky white. “And how’s our champion? The one and only _Sammy_?”

            “I told you,” John snarled. “If you come near my family again—”

            “You’ll _what_ , John?” Some of the easy composure fled Azazel’s voice, allowing a tint of irritation to creep through. “What, you think you’re gonna kill me? They haven’t found a way yet. You’re just a gutless little man making empty threats.”

            “I don’t think so,” John let a smile curl his lips. “I’ve got the Colt.”

            A long, steeped silence hummed through the stairwell. Sam was pressed close to Dean, their shoulders brushing, and he was looking anywhere but toward Azazel.

            “Well,” The demon drew the word out long and wet, gliding his tongue over his lower lip. “That does change things, doesn’t it?”

            “You could say that.” John’s chest felt saturated and sticky with relief, his bluff carrying him flawlessly deeper into the conversation. “So I suggest you go and commune with the rest of your belly-to-the-ground race, and let me and my boys do our job.”

            Azazel declined that by stepping closer, his hand snaking out suddenly, slamming John back against the wall.

            “Hey!” Dean took an involuntary step to intercede and Sam grabbed his arm, holding him back.

            Azazel pressed in chest-to-chest with John, his chin almost cradled on John’s shoulder as he whispered in his ear.

            “I am going to kill you, John Winchester.” He said, matter-of-factly; not with overbearing anger, but instead holding a sort of quiet malice in his voice. “But first, I’m going to make you watch. I’m gonna make you watch as I rip each and _every_ layer of skin from your son’s bones, until all that’s left is a weeping skeleton. And then I’m going to take Sam, and I’m going to turn him into something else entirely. Something that your kind would’ve hunted, back in the day. And just before I rip your heart out, you can watch him gut that pretty little blond wife of yours.” He paused, and John wondered if fury had a scent, if Azazel was tasting it from John’s skin. “Of course, that’s after I take her and—”

            The obscene and graphic threat hadn’t even found its full way out of Azazel’s mouth before John headbutted him, hard, sending him reeling just one step. It was enough for John to slide away from the wall and toward Dean and Sam, unifying them as a powerful, singular force.

            “You son of a bitch,” John rasped.

            “That was good, Johnny-boy.” Azazel touched the small, bleeding scratch on his scalp. “All of that anger is going to make you reckless. But if you don’t stay angry, you know exactly what’ll happen to the people you care about.” He sneered. “Nasty little scenario, it’ll drive you nuts. But you keep it together, John. We need you strong.”

            And he was gone, disappearing through the door.

            “What did he say?” Dean demanded. “Dad?”

            John thumbed his own forehead, feeling warm blood sliding down by his ear. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

            “John.” Sam’s voice was soft, a question.

            Their eyes met.

            “Look, that demon’s a bad son of a bitch.” John said. “But he just gave me what I needed. Everything I needed.”

            “What are you—?” Dean bit the words off suddenly, eyes widening. “You didn’t know the Colt could kill them.”

            John wrangled up a half-smile. “I had an idea, I just needed the proof. And I got it. But Yellow-Eyes was right, that changes everything. If I can take that gun to Lilith, I can kill her. I can turn this whole operation on its head. Take out the Queen Bee, stir the hive. Might be worth a shot”

            “You kidding me? You’ll get _yourself_ killed. She’s got, like, twenty layers of security. You’d never get close.” Dean pointed out.

            John didn’t mention that the thought had already crossed his mind, and that it changed nothing. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

 

-X-

 

            The holding room smelled like mildew and dirty bodies, and Sam and Dean stayed close to the door, away from the hunching, rumbling shapes of the other monsters, both humanoids and animals.

            They sat with their backs to the wall, saying nothing to each other, for nearly half an hour before the bouncers came for Sam. There was real animosity in the look they shot Dean, but he met it with a glare of his own so powerful, they held their silence. Dean clapped Sam on the side of the neck reassuringly, and followed him, and the bouncers, out into the Pit.

            The shriek of the music left Dean’s ears ringing and brought up the point that, if he’d wanted to torture his eardrums, he would’ve gone to a deathmetal concert in New York before they’d all disbanded. It was hard to pick out any single voice from the masses over the roar from the enormous speakers strung up from the ceiling, a derelict imitation of the Verizon Arena, and there was no sign of John.

            Under normal circumstances, Dean would’ve found a spot as close to the actual Pit and as far from John as he could; there was an unspoken but implicit pressure between them, percolating for days after what John had done to Sam. It still frothed Dean’s blood when he thought about it.

            But right now wasn’t the best time for a family feud; not with Azazel’s presence hanging on the air above them, and not with Sam in a fight where there had to be demonic pitbulls inserted, ready to tear his throat out.

            Dean threaded his way through toward the Pit, bouncing off of elbows and arms, earning himself a few caustic stares and empty warnings before he fell in next to the cage.

            And it really was that: a cage in the middle of the room, iron bars soaked in Dead Man’s Blood and rimmed with—Dean’s throat constricted.

            Spikes. Silver spikes, lethally sharp, blood dripping from their tips.

            It was a werewolf Pit, specially designed to make an interesting fight between two tussling, fully-turned animals.

            But just because Sam wasn’t a werewolf, didn’t mean that those pongee tines would be any more forgiving to his body. If he got shoved up against one, he’d be a goner, his life snuffed out just that fast.

            Dean slammed the flat of his hand against the cage. “Son of a bitch!”

            A touch on his shoulder startled him and Dean wrenched around, coming face-to-face with John. He looked haggard, tired, like he’d aged a few months since he’d left Sam and Dean in the basement.

            “How’s Sam?”

            “He’d be a lot better if he wasn’t about to go in _there_.” Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the silver spikes. John cussed under his breath.

            “I should’ve known. Demons love cages. This Pit is engineered to draw them in. To please them.”

            “Do we pull him?” Dean asked, searching John’s face.

            “Too late,” John said, bleakly, and Dean followed his stare, almost getting a faceful of Sam’s back as an enormous black dog pummeled him against the bars, setting off the first round of the night.

            Dean thrust his arm between the slats in the cage, pushing Sam away from the spikes and back toward the immediate, more apparent threat. Sam dodged, sweeping low, hitting the monster in its barrel chest with his shoulder and flattening it on its side. An elbow jab cracked the ribs and squashed the breath out of the black dog’s lungs. Its teeth snapped a hairsbreadth away from Sam’s neck, a close call Dean could feel on his own skin, but Sam was completely locked down, in the element of combat, and he didn’t hesitate. He rolled across the dog’s back and pummeled it, one, two, three jabs to the pressure points along its side: kidneys, liver, two simultaneous stomach-shots.

            When Sam rolled onto his feet, the dog stayed down, whining between parted jaws, its tongue rolling limp.

            Sam shook his hair from his eyes and glanced at Dean; Dean gave him a thumbs-up, then scanned the crowd.

            No sign of Azazel; no sign of any demons.

            “I don’t see—” He began.

            “Watch.” John’s voice was low, his head tipped down to Dean’s angle. So Dean watched, unresponsive to John’s grip on his shoulder, shifting his attention from the next fight—not Sam’s fight—to the people watching it.

            And, slowly, like staring at a painting until the facets leaped out, the details of what he was really seeing began to fall into place.

            The problem with demons was that they _glided_.

            They didn’t crash and heave together like the patrons of a fight. They slid fluidly through the gathering, like they had all the time in the world to observe and they intended to take advantage of that. Steps crossing, eyes always on the cage. They didn’t care about the people, they didn’t care about who they were brushing arms with. Just the fight, the heat and the coppery smell of blood.

            When Dean stopped seeing the audience for what it was, and looked for the gaps where it _wasn’t_ , clarity struck him like a punch.

            “There’s gotta be twenty demons here, at least.” He muttered. “S’like New York.”

            “No. This is worse.” John’s tone was guarded, on-edge. “They can see Sam.”

            And Dean couldn’t; somewhere on the other side of the cage, Sam had to be waiting in the wings. Exposed. With demons everywhere.

            Dean stepped back, eyes widening slightly as the tattered body of a Rugaru fetched up against the bars of the cage, sending a galaxy of blood drops splattering onto the floor. “What’s the plan?”  His animosity toward John aside, they had more important things to handle right now. And whatever else John was, he wasn’t stupid; he knew the circuit inside and out.

            “It’s not worth the risk of the demons catching his scent. We already know Azazel’s interested, and with Sam being Lilith’s fighter before, there’s too much history.” His eyes were in constant motion, flicking around the Pit. “As soon as the next round is over, we meet up, we pull him. We can recoup our losses some other time.”

            Dean cussed, wrapping one hand into a tight fist. “Son of a bitch.”

            When Sam took the stage again, Dean’s entire perspective shifted; rather than a bolstering force, the cheers of the crowd brought down unwanted attention. The announcer was paying Sam more of his interest than any other monster so far, and especially more than the massive, slavering Rawhead that was manhandled into the cage with Sam, the door slammed shut behind it.

            One look at Sam’s young face, his lanky build swallowed in an oversized t-shirt, and Dean wanted to nail his fist into something, pound it, make it bleed. Rawheads preyed specifically on adolescent humans; the younger, the better.

            With Sam, a Faceless, it wouldn’t know the difference. And Rawheads couldn’t be killed except by an electric shock.

            Sam circled the thing, shuffling his feet nonstop, always out of reach. The Rawhead was lumbering, slow, but the sheer bulk of it alone would be enough to crush Sam, under the right circumstances.

            “Don’t let him corner you!” Dean hollered, though it was a long shot whether or not Sam could hear him over a hundred other voices raised in the chant of bloodlust. “Quick jabs, Sam, don’t get in too close!”

            He shadowed the movements on his own, unconscious force of habit, as Sam strafed around the Rawhead, glancing blows off of it that barely rattled its tough skin. It wasn’t much of a contest, even for Sam, when his opponent was seven feet tall and two-hundred-fifty pounds of raw, steel-corded muscle.

            And right when Dean thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, it banked sharply and proved him wrong.

            The rattling started across from them, out of his line of sight; but gaining, quickly, in volume and intensity, hammering against Dean’s ears and his nerves and his bones. His mind connected, fracture-fast, and his eyes swung to Sam.

            Sam, who’d gone totally still inside the ring.

            “No, no, no! No!” Dean snarled. He punched the cage bars, not caring when the flesh over his knuckles split on the rusting iron. “ _Sam_!”

            “Azazel,” John said with grim certainty.

            The Rawhead cut loose a stringent, furious bellow, plowing toward Sam with wide, lumbering steps. Sam didn’t even seem to see it, or hear it; or to hear anything at all above the clamor of rattling keys. Snaking chains. The nightmares of his past.

            “Sammy, don’t you do this—come on, man, _come on_!”

            And Sam snapped. His eyes drilled into Dean with so much intensity, Dean felt the oxygen evaporate around him. Scalded off. Sam jammed a hand against his own chest, fingers twisting knots into his shirt. _Feeling_. Heartbeat.

            _This is all that matters_.

            Sam hooked one foot back on the cage bars and pushed off, catching hold of the single-bulb lamp that swung from the top of the cage. He pulled his knees up to his chest and then dropped his weight, wrenching the fixture straight out of its socket.

            The cage went dark.

            Excited screams pulsed hollowly in Dean’s ears, his fingers winding their way around the cage bars, a silent plea of, _Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead_ _or I’ll kick your ass_ repeating underneath his tongue.

            There was a guttural shriek, a cast of blue sparks that threw impossible valleys into the planes of Sam’s cheeks and the hollows around his eyes as he plunged the still-firing livewires from the lamp straight into the Rawhead’s heart.

            The uprising of spastic cheering masked whatever echo of rattling keys remained. Dean pushed his way through to the cage door, meeting one of the bouncers head-on. “Open the cage.”

            “The match hasn’t been called.”

            “I’m a Handler and I’m friggin’ calling it, so get your ass moving!”

            The man had a good six inches in height and brawn on Dean, but he fell back anyway; there was something about Dean Winchester when Sam was involved, something that warned of imminent death if anyone stood in his way. Dean knew he carried that aura around with him, because he felt it, and he felt it because it was true.

            Sam stumbled out to meet him, smelling like singed hair and holding his hands out in front of him. There were whip-cord electrical burns on his wrists.

            “Crap.” Dean backed down the stairs, supporting Sam’s wrists in his own hands. “That was a hell of an improv, Sam.”

            “I did my research. Agh,” Sam winced and drew back slightly as Dean ghosted his thumb over one of the crusty, angry welts.

            “These are gonna be a bitch to patch up,” Dean said sympathetically, leaning his head over the burns.

            Sam shifted his weight, his head arching over Dean’s.

            “Hey, Sam, lemee ask you something.” Dean stepped back and met Sam’s eyes. “What happened in there—how’d you do it?” When Sam just blinked, Dean added, “Looked like you snapped out of the whole flashback deal.”

            “I just,” Sam shrugged like it hadn’t been any Herculean effort to dam the tide of his memories. “John was right. You know? You guys are my family. I can’t…let myself check out just because of what happened to me. Before.”

            Dean blinked. “Aw, hold me, Sam. That’s adorable.”

            “Shut up,” Sam groaned, looking away.

            “Hey.” Dean said, more seriously, snagging Sam’s attention. “I’m proud of you, Sam.” When that earned him a slow-rising eyebrow, Dean puffed a sigh. “I’m serious.”

            “Right.” Sam flashed that familiar hangdog smile. “Thanks.”

            “Don’t mention it.” Dean gave the back of Sam’s neck a squeeze, pushing him toward the door. “We’re rollin’ out. Come on.”

            “I can still fight.” Sam protested.

            “Yeah, I know, pal. But this is dad’s call.”

            Dean didn’t want to lie to himself; whether or not Sam had turned a corner remained to be seen. But he was definitely managing it as they slipped out the door into the back alley, and piled into the Impala.

            They were pulling out when Sam mentioned passively, “I haven’t thrown up in the car in forever.”

            Dean and John exchanged a glance.

            “Alert the media,” Dean mumbled. John didn’t smile.

            Sam leaned his cheek against the window, breathing out so heavily it ruffled across the back of Dean’s neck.

            They left a Pit full of demons behind them, and carried the possibility of Sam’s progress in the silence on their way back to Lawrence.

 

-X-

 

            Standing post on the street corner, he watched the Impala pull smoothly away, whirling the keys around his finger.

            There was a part of him—a rather large, screaming part—that wanted to drive another truck into the side of that car, to watch it crumble like a toy in a child’s hand, tossed carelessly by the roadside. Again. The first time had been pure pleasure. The second would be pure strategy.

            But that wasn’t in the cards, not this time around, anyway.

            He pulled his phone out with his free hand, dialing as he brought it to his ear.

            “It’s just about time.” He waited, listening to the buzz of the voice on the far line. “Precisely. Incubation phase is on the upswing. He managed to get a hold of himself in the middle of the fight.”

            More listening; his jaw tightened. “I don’t understand. I’ve been in on this from the get-go, I should be the one to—” He cut off, yellow eyes narrowing. “Of course. Whatever you think is _best_. But I’m telling you, the time to act is _now_.”

He lifted his head, staring at the vacant mouth of the street. “Little Sammy is ready to be hatched.”

           

 


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Seventeen: The Bond Between Brothers

 

            Dean called it getting wasted.

            Sam liked to think of it as making up for lost time.

            But anyway you looked at it, drunk fighting had its advantages.

            They picked a small used-to-be-town outside of Lawrence to get _wasted_ away from home, mostly because it was inside driving distance and it wasn’t a real Pit, which meant, win or lose, it didn’t count on his ticket. And more important than that, not a Pit meant no _monsters_.

            But even in a small town like No Name, everyone knew _Sam’s_ name; it would have been hard not to. So it wasn’t surprising, if a little flattering to the drunken mind, that Sam was pushing through his third drink of the night when someone tapped him on the shoulder and asked for a fight.

            Not so _made up for lost time_ that he didn’t know who called the shots, really, Sam chanced a look at Dean; he was seeing double, but he was pretty sure the less-fuzzy outline was the real Dean.

            Dean toasted him and nodded; he wasn’t as drunk as Sam, still brooding over the fight they’d bowed out of a week ago in Amsterdam; nevermind that they’d cleaned house at another Pit just last night, which was probably what had flushed up the whole bad feeling all over again. Sam heaved to his feet and patted Dean on the shoulder.

            “Lighten up, man,” He encouraged, feeling lighter than air himself. To the hoots of two dozen bar patrons, Sam wriggled out of his jacket and followed the Tapper toward the middle of the room, where people were already clearing tables to make room for a full-on match. Sam rocked his weight onto the balls of his feet and back again and watched the Tapper steeling himself up.

He didn’t have Sam’s height, but he had twice Sam’s girth, and most of it looked like solid muscle. Considering Sam was a trained fighter and this man was not, that about evened the odds, in Sam’s opinion; they faced each other with the audience circled around them, a wall of human bodies.

Someone tossed a white bar rag into the middle, and it landed with the sound of a gunshot in any other circumstance; invisible restraining cords broke, and Sam and the Tapper came at each other like wolves.

It was different, a whole new world unlike anything except, maybe, for the confrontation with Roy Bateman outside the bar in Manchester; because this man had no second set of teeth, no super-strength, and Sam had to pull his punches and rethink his patterns. A solid blow like he was used to delivering, just to wind the average monster, could snap the man’s bones.

The eddy of alcohol in his veins made the fight elastic, time expanding around him, liquid-smooth. Sam felt himself moving in slow motion, but the world slowed with him; every jab to the solar-plexus, every knee to the gut, slowed and sped like stop-action photography. The Tapper couldn’t dodge through his blocks, couldn’t get a hold on him. Sam was free flow-watering and fast fire, he was untouchable.

There was something else, too, something alive at the corners of his vision; that constant déjà-vu, the feeling of _left uppercut, right hook, right knee to the groin_ coming to his mind just one second, maybe two, before the Tapper actually struck out.

They say the world moves in a pattern of constant reliving; something about the bend of light hitting one eye, sending pistons firing in the brain before the other eye catches up. The brain scrambles, filling in the gaps between _now_ and _next,_ until the other eye processes and repeats the same information all over again; it’s the primary cause of déjà-vu, that feeling of experiencing life in a time loop.

Sam knew this because Mary knew this, and Mary loved those kinds of things; all the reasons behind why the brain does what it does.

If Mary was with him, Sam would’ve asked how déjà-vu could go on, then, when he closed his eyes.

Impaired judgment from the alcohol, or the gritty gray-white light of the bar, had Sam sliding his eyes shut, and still not missing a step; arching through the Tapper’s rhythms, his feet sliding across the dusty floor, Sam could _feel_ , could _sense_ , impending blows before they landed. Blocking, swirling with precision, the fight as natural as the beat of his heart or the breath in his lungs.

Suiting him: a monster

Sam’s eyes bolted open and he caught the Tapper’s next hit, hooking his legs out from under him and knocking him reeling back into a table the broke easily under his weight.

For half a second Sam was afraid he’d injured the man; but the Tapper, dark skin and long dreadlocks, pushed himself up on his palms after a minute, grinning.

“You’re sure some kinda fighter,” He said, his voice heavily accented.

“You’re not too bad, yourself.” Sam said.

“No, not good. Not if I can’t beat you with your eyes closed.” The Tapper stretched up a hand and Sam accepted it, pulling him to his feet. The man gave him a shake by the shoulders. “Now I can say I have done it all. I have fought a monster.”

Something acidic mingled with the alcohol in his veins, and Sam suddenly wanted to bow out, to back away. _Not a monster. M’not…Faceless. I’m just Sam, just…_

“Sam Winchester!” The Tapper announced, sweeping a wide gaze to the patrons, and they all clapped fervently. “And I will pay one hundred dollars to the man who can best the beast among us tonight.”

Catcalls and jeering flew in, and Sam jerked away. “M’not…didn’t come here to fight. Just wanna…drink.”

“But you _can_ fight.” The Tapper’s smile was a brilliant cut of white teeth against his black skin. “And I would like to see a man who can cleverly beat you.”

“I’ll give it a shot.”

Sam prayed he’d misheard as he looked over his shoulder.

One thumb hooked through the belt loop of his jeans, Dean slumped his shoulder casually against the wall, watching. When their eyes met, Dean raised his hand, two fingers cocked.

“I’ll take him down.”

The riotous hooting followed Dean as he shucked off his jacket, then his hoodie, stepping into the circle. The Tapper bawled with pleasure and melted back into the crowd, and Sam went chest to chest with Dean, head looping low.

“Dean, don’t do this.”

“Come on, Sam.” Dean gave him a flat-palmed shove, breaking them apart. “Let’s see you take _me_ on with your eyes closed, huh?”

Sam studied him, bleary thoughts starting to make sense; Dean had seen him fighting. Sam, taking on the Tapper, besting him easily without even looking. Dean was unnerved, and he was screaming: screaming with his fists up and his feet in constant motion. Screaming in his own langue, in the tongues of fire and punches and pain.

“Fine.” Sam spat the word out, and they started circling, buoyed up by the cries of the onlookers.

 _Just a training match_ , Sam reminded himself, his vision blurring. _It’s just like—_

That illusion shattered when Dean’s fist busted his lip, slinging blood.

“Come on!” Dean taunted, springing back, arms spread wide.

Sam went after him, sweeping low for Dean’s waist; more than pulling his punches, putting thought into each movement, he was using every ounce of clarity to not slip, to not let himself hurt Dean. Even drunk, he was sure of his own strength; and his strength outweighed his brother’s.

 _Brother. He’s my brother_. Sam poured that thought into a thump of a fist on Dean’s abdomen, feeling the hard press of abdominal muscles bracing against him.

 _How the hell did you beat that guy with your eyes shut_?, was in Dean’s parrying move, folding himself over Sam’s arm and twisting it up and around, behind his back, kicking Sam onto his knees.

 _I don’t know, I just did it!_ Sam doubled over, ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder, and slid one leg back to trip Dean, knocking him forward. Sam reared his weight back, cracking the top of his head against Dean’s chin, stunning him long enough for Sam to slide loose.

When Sam turned, he realized he’d missed the mark; Dean’s gushing nose matched Sam’s split lip. Not only that, but a shiner was starting on Dean’s cheekbone.

Dean curled his hand over twice, beckoning; a challenge. _Try it on me_.

Sam settled his weight firmly. _No_.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, _Sam_ , and he held his arms up slightly, then let them drop to his sides, _Come on_.

Sometimes, Sam thought hazily, sometimes he really, really wished he couldn’t read Dean so well; every breath, every twitch, every motion.

He closed his eyes.

Dean’s kick almost made it through Sam’s guard; but he deflected it, cocking his knee so the blow rebounded off his calf rather than numbing his thigh. Eyes still shut, Sam brought his arms up and together, guarding against a punch Dean aimed for his chest. He swatted Dean’s arm down and aimed the heel of his hand for Dean’s face, a quick but powerful strike that could force the cartilage of Dean’s nose into his brain if it hit right.

Dean evaded at the last second, grabbing Sam’s wrist in one hand and slamming his elbow into the inside of Sam’s arm, nailing the nerve that made Sam’s fingertips go numb. Sam’s eyes flipped wide and he took a punch from Dean straight to the face, crashing him back into the wall of people.

“So much for invincible, huh?” Dean taunted, hop-stepping forward, daring Sam with a feral smirk to come and finish it.

Sam launched himself at Dean and they went down struggling, no reason to the swipes of their fists, just pure old-fashioned, skin-to-skin tussling for control. The pound of alcohol in his bloodstream and the swarm of voices over his head made Sam feel exactly how Dean had called him: invincible.

And then it struck him, a dash of clarity like cold water to the face, that this wasn’t a monster he could up and walk away from, not a Pit fight, not a life-or-death struggle for power. This was Dean, and this was a game.

Sam yanked his hands back, straddling Dean, and didn’t move to block when Dean cracked him in the face with an elbow. But the blow landed—solid—and Sam’s field of vision popped with black stars. He careened over on the floor and gave in to the momentary rush of darkness.

It didn’t last long; a hand shaking his shoulder brought him around, a sweaty, bloody palm cradling his cheek, holding his head off the floor.

“S’m? Sam, you with me?” And then, a bark, louder: “ _Sam_!”

“I hear you.” Sam groaned, the words all flushing together in a stream. Dean patted his cheek and Sam cranked open his eyes, noticing that the crowd had dispersed, thinned out with the excitement waning, the fight at a close. It was just him and Dean still in the circle of tables, the other patrons on their way out the door.

“Atta boy.” Dean pulled Sam up until he was sitting, hunched over with his arms draped down his long legs. “Dude, I didn’t think I hit you that hard.”

“Nice aim,” Sam said wryly, touching two fingers to the split down his chin. “Wow. Ouch.”

“Lemee see.” Dean tipped Sam’s head back. “Ah, that’s nothing.”

“Tell that to my spine.” Sam let Dean haul him to his feet, switching his weight until his balance returned. “Who won?”

Dean jabbed two thumbs toward his own chest with a tongue-poking-out, pointy-toothed grin. “This guy. Right here.”

Sam hadn’t really had any doubt of that. “Congratulations.”

“Hey, that’s not even the best part.” Dean slid a wad of folded money from his back pocket, holding it up between two fingers. Sam flicked a glance at it and couldn’t hold in a smile. “One hundred bucks, cold, hard cash.”

“That’s great, Dean.”

Something in Sam’s tone seemed to alert Dean, because after a minute he loosened, his smile going slack. “You let me get that hit in.”

Sam laughed out loud and moved toward the bar counter, Dean swiveling to follow him with a wide-eyed stare.

“Dude! That’s cheating!”

“As far as I’m concerned, you won. Fair and square.” Sam pointed to his damaged chin, still laughing, and ordered another beer.

When Sam propped himself against the counter and uncapped the smoky-brown bottle, Dean’s hand met the back of his head in a hard slap. “Not funny, Sam. Seriously?” He hopped up on his bar stool. “I thought I busted your jaw or something!”

“I wanted you to win the bet.”

“You suck.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Sam waved it of with a sweep off his hand, tipping back more beer with a sloppy smile.

Dean brooded for a second, then looked at him. “Seriously, though, why’d you quit out on me?”

“I told you, I wanted you to win.” Sam said, but his smile slipped. _Just a game_. It was just a game.

“No-no-no, Sam.” Dean swiveled the stool, kicking Sam’s leg. “I saw the look on your face. What’s goin’ on up there, huh?” He tapped the mouth of his beer bottle against Sam’s temple, and Sam brushed him off, slightly uncoordinated.

“It’s just a game.” He said.

“What are you talking about?”

“That.” Sam nodded in the general direction of the circle of tables. “Just a game, Dean. Didn’t wanna…ruin your face.”

“You can’t ruin this kinda perfection.” Dean gestured to himself in a general whole. “I appreciate that, though.”

“Anytime.” Sam chuckled quietly, turning back to face the counter. “Anytime you _don’t_ need your face busted…I’ll be there.”

“Uh-huh. And anytime _you_ need a designated driver, or someone to pull your ass out of the fire,” Dean’s tone was teasing, but his eyes carried the seriousness of the statement. “I’ll be right with ya. All the way.”

Sam studied the countertop, hot emotion flooding his eyes. “Thanks.”

Dean nudged him and held up the beer bottle. “To sticking it out through all the crap. Staying a family, no matter what.”

Sam’s face crunched in an imitation of a smile, his throat burning, “Yeah. To family,” and he clinked his bottle against Dean’s.

 

-X-

 

Azazel lurked on the corners of John’s every waking thought.

In spite of that, he couldn’t keep Sam from the Pits; ever since he’d started the third tier of Kajukenbo with Dean, Sam was a veritable heaving mass of muscle and energy. Given the fact that he’d come to them when the seasons were just changing from cold to colder, John wasn’t sure how much experience Sam had with warm weather, either; mingling the two factors in one person made for a timebomb of liveliness.

Like Dean, Sam had constant cabin-fever; unlike Dean, Sam seemed to have healthy outlets for it. He’d train, he’d run, or he’d help Mary with anything she needed, bouncing at her heels like an excited puppy while she showed him how to clean this, fix that; and he was a fast learner. All it took was one example and Sam was rewiring all the faulty switches in the house.

But even that wasn’t enough to occupy him for long; so, despite his reservations, despite his instincts to lay low and protect his family, John had to take Sam to the Pits to work off his abundant energy, and to keep them moving steadily on through the Prelims.

Fight after fight after fight. Disjointed fingers that Dean had to reset in the backseat of the Impala, Sam slumping back with his head against the window and gurgling deep, painful breaths until the wash of agony passed; bleeding, disorientation, badly bruised ribs, sprained ankles, dented collarbones. Feathery snowflake scars.

Sam took it all in stride and never bounced back with anything less than a smile and that same upbeat attitude. More energy. Either he was masking some kind of internal struggle or, as John came to suspect, in spite of everything Sam was just _happy_.

Happy without a cage, happy with John giving him space, happy with Mary to teach him, and Dean to stick close. Happy in a house in the middle of nowhere, no neighbors, no ropes, nothing to stop him if he wanted to leave; the freedom to leave gave him the will to stay.

And slowly, John felt something inside of him thawing; Sam’s vivacious attitude, his willingness to be whatever they needed him to be, found a place of warmth in John’s heart. Until one morning he walked downstairs after a shower and found Sam was the only one up, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the couch, tinkering with the lantern that had started to die out the night before; standing there, toweling off his wet hair and watching Sam work, John found himself asking without preamble, “You wanna help me wash the car?”

Sam looked up, clearly startled, setting the lantern hastily on the table. “Sure.” He bounded to his feet and followed John out, ready, like always, for anything.

It was late April, warm for Kansas this time of year, and they hauled out a blue horse-feed bucket and a toolbox of washcloths, buffing solvent and the spool of hose from the shed. Mary and Dean had patched the holes in the roof the weekend after Dean had told them everything about New York, leaving the straw dry, and open-ended secrets floating with the dust motes in the air; while John had been angry to learn just how deeply and completely this life had swallowed his son, he hadn’t been surprised then, and he still wasn’t. More than anything, he felt resignation.

“We really got this thing muddy,” Sam observed, circling the Impala and rubbing his hand over the thin layer of mud that skirted her on every side.

“That’s what happens when you drive to a Pit in the middle of Nebraska in a rainstorm.” John straightened from the toolbox, “Heads up,” and tossed Sam a rag. Sam caught it one-handed. “I’ll spray her off. You come behind me and touch her up.”

“Yes, sir.”

It wasn’t especially strenuous work, but it gave John something to do with his hands, something to occupy his mind; something that made him feel less out of his element around Sam. Sam seemed to make a visible effort to rein in his energy, subsiding into the slow work of cleaning mud from the rims of the Impala. He was gentle, careful and tedious, the way an older car needed handling.

Seven months, nearly eight had passed since Dean had first pulled him from the cage at the Snatcher’s nest, and Sam hadn’t manifested an iota of strange power that John had seen; he hadn’t turned during any number of full moons, hadn’t burned out, grown fangs or sprouted claws. He’d stayed strong, fast, always one step ahead of his opponents for the most part, his fights a wonder to watch as he countered blows the very second they came toward him. Never once complaining, about the bumps and scrapes and bruises that came from the most unpredictable matches, about the brand on his arm, about what he was, his allotment in life, the words whispered behind his back: _one of a kind,_ and _different_ , and _monster_ , and, at times by John’s own mouth, _Faceless_.

But he’d been there; for Dean, for Mary. Had been the hand on John’s shoulder to keep him steady when he heaved beer onto the roadside. The day John had removed his sling, sick of wearing it, Mary had taken Dean to the mini-mart with her. And it had just been Sam to celebrate with, but Sam _had_ celebrated, with shining happiness in his eyes, offering to burn the sling in commemoration.

Sam—John thought, watching him scrub the Impala’s wheel well—was a victim with his future ripped out from under him by outside forces that had had no right to interfere. Sam was a child trapped in a twenty-something-year-old body. Sam was an old soul wearing a young face. Sam was a mystery, a riddle, he was Faceless.

And he’d never once stopped trying to prove himself.

John spread his arms, knuckles braced down on the Impala’s trunk. “Sam, I’m sorry.”

Sam looked up, shock hefting his brows high. “I—what?”

John glanced away, rubbing the side of his neck. “I said, I’m sorry.”

Sam unfolded to his feet in an instant, his expression crumpling with worry. “For _what_?” His tone invited John to divulge, to pass the weight of some terrible imagined crime from his shoulders, to Sam’s.

John kept his eyes fixed determinedly on the sunrise that was stretching lazily across the horizon. “Truth is, I never wanted this life for Dean. Mary might say that makes me a hypocrite, but there ya have it. I wanted better for my son. I wanted him to grow up decent, go to school, raise a family of his own.”

“Dean _is_ decent,” Sam said, slowly, like he wasn’t following the pattern of John’s thought process.

John straightened with a shake of his head. “No. Dean is cursed, Sam. We all are.” He held up a hand, seeing the protest working its way off of Sam’s tongue. “It’s not his fault. Hell, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I put too much on him, ever since he was a kid. He was always a Hunter, or Mary’s protector.”

Sam tipped his head slightly to one side, his expression brimming with sympathy. “You did the best you could.”

“I didn’t treat him any better than Lilith treated you.”

Sam regarded him, with reserve and maybe a tinge of anger, and John restrained himself, bowing his head.

“All right, so I never tortured him. But I never let him grow up on his own terms, either. Dean was watching me for cues before he could hold up his own head. He could load a shotgun in seconds flat before he could ride a bike. Hell, he knew protective wards against Wendigoes before he knew how to write his own _name_.” He wagged his head slightly. “And I knew it. I wanted him to get as far from all of this as he could. So you know what happened the day Mary ended things? I let him go with her, I didn’t even _fight_ for him, and here I was thinking maybe he’d be better off that way. But the person who came home? That’s not my little boy.” He creaked an empty, hopeless smile toward Sam. “That’s not my Deano. That’s a man, tough as nails, made outta the same gunmetal and sharp edges as his old man. And I’ve hated myself for it from the second he stepped back through that door.”

Sam shifted, discomfort obvious in every line of his body, folding his arms across his chest. “Dean doesn’t blame you.”

“Doesn’t make things any better.” John straightened up. “And you know what I see when I look at you?”

“What?” Sam’s voice was soft.

“You’re a kid, Sam. Same as Dean was. When you break it down, all the same crap happened to you. No one cared enough to look twice, and before you knew it you were running scared,” John broke off, rubbing a hand over his bristly jaw, looking away again, then back to Sam. “I can’t do it. Not again.”

Sam’s expression shifted from empathetic to guarded in seconds, his posture stiffening slightly.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m done being your enemy, Sam.” John said. “I won’t do it anymore. We figure out what you are, and we deal with it. But this family won’t make it if we’re divided. I wouldn’t say I trust you, not completely, but I’ll say that from now on, we deal with things as they are, out in the open. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam studied his boots, hair flopping into his eyes. “My dad was a Hunter. A lot of people knew him. I think.”

The declaration left John at a loss for words, for a second. “Come again?”

“I don’t remember much about him.” Sam said, squinting as the sunlight broke the horizon. “I don’t know why he gave me up. Or if Lilith took me, kidnapped me, I just…I don’t know. But I remember him drawing something on the door of our house, every time people came in and out.”

“Drawing what?”

Sam dipped his fingers into the bucket of soapy, muddy water he’d been using to clean the tires, and traced a foaming outline on the trunk: a five-point star inside a circle.

“I saw Dean drawing it on a piece of paper, once. Back when I first moved in.” Sam said, wiping his hand on his thigh. “I remember the shape.”

“Pentagram.” John cut the circle with his knuckles, rubbing it dry. “That symbol’s supposed to ward off demons, or any kind of malevolent force. People used to use them when they were protecting valuable items, thousands of years ago.”

Sam nodded. “I read that in one of your books. I just, I didn’t know what it meant. ’Til then, anyway. I thought maybe it was coincidence, that Dean knew the same thing. Now, I’m not so sure.”

John rocked his head slowly, considering. “’Course, there’s always the chance your dad was a Wiccan.”

Sam laughed, a surprised sound. “Yeah, maybe.”

Neither of them really believed it.

“Son of a Hunter, taken by demons.” John murmured. “Hell of a coincidence.”

“You think they took me _because_ of what my dad was?”

“I think there’s something there. Don’t know what it is yet.” And, because they were being honest, now, John felt compelled to say, “If it’d been me? If you were my kid? I would’ve put a bullet in your head.”

“I know.” Sam twitched a brief half-smile toward him.

John didn’t even really believe himself; because the thought of shooting a child made nausea curl his toes inside his boots. He wasn’t sure any decent human being could kill a little kid, especially one who hadn’t committed any evil.

“What about your parents? Any idea where they are?”

Sam’s face went stony. “The demons killed them. I remember that.”

And John knew, without expressing it, that Sam deserved better; that watching your parents die was something that never left you, it never got any easier. John still had the vivid recollection of his own father trying to kill him, of his mother already being murdered by the time the madman had come for John. A demon, all along. Possessed, or always that way, John didn’t know. He didn’t know how demons _worked_.

If he himself was the son of a demon, a monster in his own right, _he didn’t want to know_.

“This car isn’t gonna clean itself.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam crouched and picked up the rag, getting back to work on the rims. “Did you and Dean pick the next fight?”

“Junction City’s running a Pit this weekend, at the Metradrome. I figured we could give it a shot.”

“You’ve been there before, though, right?” Sam asked. When John merely grunted, Sam added, “Still avoiding Gordon?”

“Haven’t heard word one from him since last year. As far as I’m concerned, that’s bad news. Gordon Walker used to rule the Prelims. If he’s got his head down, that probably means he’s dealing under the table.”

“You think he cut a deal with the demons?”

“Could be. Better safe than sorry.” John spared a glance at Sam, hunched on one knee with sweat sticking his dark gray beater to his back, working like it was his lifeblood to pour into the Impala. “Sam,” John said, quietly, and Sam tipped his head back. “Does Dean know?”

“About who my parents were?” Sam shook his head slowly. “It wouldn’t change anything. Dean’s still Dean and I’m still…me. Nothing else really matters.”

Considering his own past, John wished it could be that simple.

 

-X-

 

“Go long, Sam, go long!”

“Dude, why are you telling me where to run? We’re not even on the same team!”

The window over the sink was propped open with a wooden slat, voices carrying on the warm wind through the screen. Sitting at the table with a newspaper spread in front of him, John paid half-attention to the sounds of Sam and Dean throwing the football in the front yard. He was absorbed in his work, for once not bothered by any tight stitches of doubt or fear or anger in his chest.

Maybe he should’ve felt them.

But today was a good day.

Hands squeezed his shoulders, startling him, and he craned his head up as Mary leaned over him to look at the newspaper.

“What looks promising?” She tucked her hair behind her ear.

“No Pit fights within sixty miles. We’ll have to branch out for the next one.”

“Any ideas?” She was so close, the smell of vanilla shampoo seemed to sap off her skin and into John’s. It was a herculean effort not to inhale a lungful of her scent.

John cleared his throat. “St. Louis might be our best bet. Smaller Pit, but it should be a good turnout.”

“What are the dates?”

“Just the ninth.” John folded the newspaper shut. “A week from now.”

“Good, that should give Sam’s face some time to heal. I’m worried about that cut on his cheek, I think it’s trying for an infection.” Mary crossed to the sink and John was disappointed to watch her go.

“We got any antibiotics left?”

“No, we used the last a long time ago.” Mary perched her hands on her hips and studied the sink. “This is ridiculous. I asked Dean to do these dishes before he went out this morning.”

John half-smiled. “After you mentioned celebrating Sam’s birthday, he was a lost cause, Mare. They’ve been out there with that football for two hours.”

Mary rubbed her forehead and sighed. “I guess I can let it slide, this once.” She rolled up the sleeves of her plaid shirt, then glanced back at him. “Well? These dishes aren’t going to wash themselves, John.”

It was an invitation, and acceptance, and John sprang on it like a starving man, hefting himself out of the chair to join her at the counter. He stopped when he had full view of the boys: at some point Dean had fumbled the football and now they were leapfrog-crawling over each other, warring for a grip on the slippery pigskin while simultaneously dragging themselves closer to the endzone that Dean had marked with a line of straw shavings on the grass.

He must’ve crossed it, John surmised, because with Sam still practically sitting on his back, Dean threw his arms up in the universal sign of a touchdown. Sam kneed him in the side and Dean pitched the ball of his shoulder with a muffled, “Your ball, Sammy!”

Sam let him up and tugged Dean to his feet. “What’s the score?”

John was able to recite in perfect synchrony with Dean under his breath: “Hundred to nil, my favor.”

Mary smiled at him sidelong. “I remember watching you two play out of this window from mid-afternoon until dark. Years and years ago.” Her tone was faintly wistful.

John scratched his cheek. “Yup. Deano’s passing the torch.”

He felt Mary’s soft gaze on him. “He’s happy, John.”

“I know.”

Out in the yard, Sam let Dean get a running start before he winged the ball in a perfect spiral. Ten, fifteen, twenty yards out and Dean planted one foot and swung his weight around, catching the ball straight against his chest. He took off running back for the endzone and Sam caught him around the waist halfway there, slamming him onto his back on the grass.

John could remember when it had been him, grass-stained knees and muddy skin, Dean sitting on his chest trying to wrestle the ball from John’s stronger, brawny arms until they were both laughing so hard that playing was pointless, anyway.

“John.” Mary bumped him with her hip. “I’ll wash, you dry?”

He nodded, and they set to work; keeping one eye each on the yard, on the game of football that was quickly heating up into a brutal macho display as Sam and Dean found increasingly creative ways to stop each other from crossing the goal. John was a personal fan of the headlock Sam threw on Dean, but when Dean got a fistful of Sam’s long hair, that was worth a chuckle.

“They play as hard as they fight,” Mary observed, with affection and amusement.

“Dean’s a Winchester.” John said, by way of answering.

“The attitude seems to run in the men of this family.” Mary agreed, her tone perfectly flat, hiding laughter.

“You’re right. It’s hard to resist our manly urges.” John hooked the sink’s spray nozzle and twitched the trigger, catching Mary straight in the front of her shirt.

“How old _are_ you?” She spluttered indignantly, sweeping at the soaked hem of the flannel.

John grinned mischievously. “I’ve gotten you a lot wetter than that, Mare.”

Her response was to grab a cutting board and cream him on the arm, John ducking his head away from the blow but taking it good and solid to the bicep. He retaliated with another stream of water that she deflected with the cutting board before she lunged at him, trying to wrestle the squirter from him.

“You’re only making this worse!” John chuckled, easily blocking her slighter frame with his broad shoulders. Mary stopped for a second, then grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him around, ignoring his stammered grunts of protests as she kept dragging, dragging, tugging salt-and-pepper strands loose, and John finally relented his hold and stepped back in surrender. “Women don’t fight fair, is the problem.”

“No.” Mary sprayed him in the face. “We don’t.”

But she was smiling, a wide smile with creases in her cheeks and a soft feathering between and behind her eyes, and John was hit with the sudden blinding realization that he loved her, had never stopped loving her, and if the feeling escalated at all he would be in danger of bursting blood vessels.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to invite her to discuss the subject, when Dean came careening inside with the football tucked under his arm, sliding into the kitchen and ricocheting off the wall. “Touchdown! I win, Sammy.”

Sam puffed in on Dean’s heels and bent over double with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. “You cheated.”

“Did not. You’re a freakin’ sore loser.” Dean flipped a grin toward John and Mary, noticed the state of their respective clothes, and blinked. “What’d we miss?”

“Your father decided to give in to his manly urges.” Mary dropped the sink hose into John’s hands and brushed the back of her hand down Dean’s muddy cheek. “Go get showered. Both of you. We have a birthday to celebrate.”

The back of Sam’s neck flushed as Mary moved toward him. “Look, I—”

“We’re not having this argument again, Sam. Hm?” Mary tipped his chin with two fingers, revealing the whitening scar on the cleft there; results of some training session gone wrong, or so Dean had said. Judging by how smashed Sam had been, and hungover the next day, John suspected a bar fight. But, like in Manchester, he’d left it alone. “You boys get cleaned up.” Mary kissed Sam’s temple. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”

The look of naked disbelief and love in Sam’s eyes almost made John uncomfortable.

Dean lifted his chin suddenly, “Hey, dad,” and lobbed the football toward him. John caught it by reflex, cinching it to his side, and Dean grinned. “We oughta have a two-on-two, sorta, family brawl sometime.” He pitched his voice dramatically low. “Just, uh, don’t let Sam over here get on your team, or you’re screwed.”

His footsteps drummed up the stairs in double-time, with an insulted Sam chasing after him, slinging trashtalk back and forth.

John passed the football from hand to hand. “Less than a half dozen fights left before we’re in the Leagues, Mary.”

She cleared her throat, suddenly serious, returning to the sink and cranking on the water; only to shut it off again a moment later when she realized it would make the showers run cold. “I know.”

“Are you and Deano still planning on leaving when this is over?”

Mary’s reply was cut off by a sharp knock on the door.

Their eyes met, a glance of wary alertness.

No neighbors for fifteen miles.

John tossed the football onto the couch in passing and squinted through the small peephole; all he could see was a cluster of pressed suits, a flash of silky silver-yellow in the late-morning light.

He leaned his shoulder against the door. “Who is it?”

“Somebody with a business proposition.” The voice was feminine, soft and buttery, but something about it set John’s molars together. “Would you mind letting us in? It’s awfully humid out here.”

John exchanged another glance with Mary, then unfastened the deadbolt and opened the door.

On the far side of the screen, a small group of people had knit themselves into the smallest alcove where the sunlight didn’t reach: two men in suits, another dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt under a green flannel, sleeves rolled up.

The fourth was a woman. Immaculately dressed. Straight hair parted dead center. Carrying the air of a lioness and the charm of a rattlesnake.

“Hello, John.” She purred.

John tasted blood and bitter acid in his throat.

“Lilith.”

 

-X-

 

“Dude, this is stupid. I can’t believe your family wants to celebrate my birthday.” Sam backed down the stairs, each foot placed with precision to keep him from tripping. “And y’know, it’s not even my _real_ birthday. It’s made up.”

“Oh, just suck it up, Sam.” Dean passed him, shoving Sam’s shoulder with his, nudging him around to walk down the stairs like a normal person. “It could be worse.”

And when he reached the base of the stairs, he had to choke on his own words.

John and Mary were facing four strangers bunched near the door: half of them suited up, one dressed casual, like a slummer from the Pits, and a girl who brought a heft to Dean’s eyebrows. Tall, slender, platinum blond. Like Jo, but without all the jagged angles and street-scuffs.

Dean padded down the last few steps and stopped. “Who’s this?”

“Dean.” John’s voice was calm, level, and dangerous. It was his soldier’s voice, his warning, _Don’t come outside,_ voice. “Take Sam and go back upstairs.”

“Oh, no.” The girl purred, her voice rich, satiny-smooth and syrupy sweet. “We’d love to have him stay. Let them _both_ stay, John.”

“Dad, who is this chick?”

“I said, go upstairs!” And the millisecond that John’s voice broke, betraying his anger and maybe, even, just a trace of desperation, that was enough.

Dean backed up the steps until he reached Sam, who was gripping the banister, his forearm trembling, every cord of muscle, every vein standing out against his shivering skin. His teeth gritted, lips meshing around the words, “She’s Lilith.”

Dean’s head snapped around, his eyes meeting the demon’s.

“It sounds like it’s time for introductions.” Lilith gestured to the suited men. “Those two aren’t important. This,” She indicated her casually dressed partner. “Is Nick, but he prefers to be called _Lusiver_.”

“Howdy, Sam.” Lusiver saluted languidly. “Been a few months, hasn’t it, buddy? How’s the domestic life treating you?” He leaned forward, his vice a conspiratorial whisper, face scrunching in a feigned expression of sympathetic displeasure. “Really not all it’s cracked up to be, is it?”

“Why are you here?” All of John’s composure had returned, but from behind, Dean could see his spine standing out rigidly through his denim overshirt, one hand brushing the small of Mary’s back like he was ready to pull her out of harm’s way.

“Straight to business. I like that in a man.” Lilith chewed her full bottom lip for a moment, then lifted her chin. “We’re here for Sam.”

John’s, “Excuse me?” was overlapped by the vehement snarl of, “ _No way_!” that burst out of Dean.

“Let’s not all talk at once, shall we? Gets to be a little annoying.” Lusiver’s tone was casual, but his expression left no question: that was an order, not a request.

“We want Sam.” Lilith said. “He’s our little prize fighter, and we want him back.”

“I have a better idea,” Mary’s tone was pure righteous steel. “You’re trespassing on our private property. How about you get out of our house, you slutty little bitch?”

Dean’s eyes widened and he made a mental note to congratulate Mary for that one, when all of this was over.

Something wicked, licorice black and torrid was spinning in his stomach from the moment the thought of _after_ first crossed his mind.

“Mary,” John said, cautioning, and while she receded there was still a passion of discourse in her eyes. John turned back to Lilith. “You can’t have Sam.”

Lilith tipped her head, cat-cool and sleek. “You have no right to claim him.”

“Think again.” Dean said. “Sam, show her.”

Sam remained frozen beside him, hand still gripping the railing, eyes pinned straight to Lusiver. He was trembling.

Dean bumped him. “Sam! The brand, show her the brand!”

“You really think a little tattoo on his arm makes you his lord and master?” Lilith laughed, a biting, grating sound. “Think _again_ , Dean. The only reason you ever had Sam at all was because we wanted you to.”

Ice perforated Dean’s veins, spreading from his throat to his feet in seconds. He stepped down, angling himself between Sam and the demons. “What do you mean?”

“You ever heard of a botfly?” Lusiver asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a tiny little thing, but it has the most interesting reproductive cycle. Y’see, it lays its eggs _inside_ the body of another insect, and when those eggs hatch…”

“The little botflies eat their host from the inside.” Lilith concluded with relish. When Dean just glared at her, she rolled her eyes. “Honestly, how dense _are_ you? _You_ scummy little humans are the insects. Sam, is the botfly.” She gestured to him, and Dean felt the touch of Sam’s hand as he flinched like Lilith had struck out at him. “Before, he was useless to us. A waste of space. Garbage wearing skin. But now you’ve given him something really, really _powerful_.”

“And what’s that?” John growled.

“He’s fighting for something. He’s got the _spark_.” Lilith’s eyes were trained on Sam, over Dean’s shoulder. “And now we want him back.”

“Not happening.” Dean spat. “You might as well pack up your matched luggage and hit the road, sweetheart. The only way you’re getting Sam is over my dead ass.”

“That can be arranged.” Lusiver studied one hand, and a faint ripple of power seemed to exude from his pores, sweeping the room.

Dean thought he heard Sam gag.

“On the other hand,” Lilith reached into the immaculate front of her gray suit and pulled out a tri-folded paper. “This would be the official contract that makes Sam ours. All of the _cool_ kids have them.” She tossed it to John and he caught it, eyes sweeping the page.

The room was compressing around Dean, growing smaller. “Dad?”

John looked up after a moment, deep crags carved into his face. “This doesn’t mean anything. Fights operate off the brand on a monster’s arm, not a contract.”

“Maybe in the circles you run in, John.” Lilith snatched the paper back. “But the Leagues are a little different. And Sam’s still ours.”

“Hear that, Sammy?” Lusiver craned his head to look up the stairs. “You’re still _my_ little bitch.”

Dean was down the steps and rushing the demon before his brain caught up to his body, and it was a hand in the back of his shirt that stopped him, Sam hauling him back just like that first night, and John’s arm caught him across the chest, holding him in place.

They faced each other, four Winchesters against four demons.

“Let me make this clear.” Lilith’s tone and cocked hip suggested she was running thin on patience. “I haven’t traveled this far from a city in years.  That costs a lot of my time; valuable time, that I could be spending with my own fighters. Sam, is _ours_. He was never _yours_ , he was a mistake made by a few Snatchers, and you just happened to tap into whatever power he has. But now he’s got potential, and we want him _back_. So, John, you’re going to give him to us. Or I’ll flay your pretty, pretty wife into strips.”

“In the meantime, I’ll take this vase,” Lusiver plucked it off the coffee table. “And do things to your son that would make your old-man hair curl into knots.”

“And then we’ll slit your throat.” Lilith concluded. “And we’ll take Sam anyway.”

“Let me go, I’m gonna kill them.” Dean snarled.

“Dean, that’s enough!” John’s voice cracked, again, his arm still pressed against Dean’s chest, and Dean shot a look toward him in time to see the battle slip from their hands; to see John’s dark, hopeless eyes fixed on the demons. Weighing it out: all of their lives to fight for Sam, or to let Sam go anyway.

None of them could say it; no one moved.

“Take him.” Lilith said to the suited demons behind her.

“No, no, no, no. Dad, _no_!” Dean tried to shove John’s arm out of his way, but when Lilith lifted a hand toward him Dean felt a small, ripping tear in his chest, like he’d slammed his ribs into the banister. His breath caught.

“Keep a muzzle on your boy, John. Or we’ll shut him up for good.”

            “Dean?” Sam spoke, for the first time since he’d announced Lilith for who she was, and his eyes were fixed on the approaching demons as he backed away.

            And Dean broke; he whirled away from John and Mary and rammed into the closest demon, knocking him against his partner and sending all three of them sprawling into the wall. “Sammy, go! Get outta here, _run_!”

            The demon’s foot collided with Dean’s head, knocking his world out of orbit. Dean found himself slammed against the wall by his throat until John plowed in, ripping the demon off of him; before Dean could recover, the second demon dropped onto John’s back, burying him in a writhing heap while the icy iron grip of the first returned to Dean’s neck. Through blistering eyes, he saw Mary rush to John’s aid, only to be caught around the waist by Lusiver, spun around and thrown to the floor.

            Lusiver crouched over her, one knee in the small of her back.  He flipped her over, catching both her wrists in one hand and pressing a finger to her lips. “Shh.”

            “Mom—!” Dean choked on the word.

            The demon holding him went down, suddenly, dropped like a sack of sand, and Dean hit the floor on his knees, choking for breath, one second away from the panic of having been pushed to the edge of unconsciousness.

            Sam’s palms came to his face, slid down to his neck, forcing his head up. “Dean! Hey! You’re okay. Look at me!”

            Dean did, blearily, acutely aware that he’d been an airless instant shy of being strangled. “Dammit, Sam, I told you to _run_!”

            “ _Not without you guys_!”

            Arms shoved between them, breaking them apart, colliding Dean with the wall. By the time he fished himself onto his hands and knees again, there was a demon on each of Sam’s arms, dragging him toward the door, toward Lilith, and Lusiver, who’d done _something_ , something while Dean was distracted, Mary was lying on the floor prone and she wasn’t _moving_ …

            “Sam—!” Dean lurched to his feet and John looped an arm around his chest, more firmly this time, leaving a streak of blood, _whose blood_?, on the front of Dean’s shirt.

            John was furious. “Stop, Dean, stop, dammit!”

            “ _Dean_!” Sam’s voice was pleading, begging, his eyes wet and wide and wild with terror. “Dean, please, don’t— _Dean, help me_!”

            “ _Sammy_!”

            “If our paths cross again, you’d best say your prayers.” Lusiver tipped an invisible hat and stepped out first.

            The suits, and Sam, lingered in the doorway. Sam, half-hanging between them, straining to get back, back into the house, into his home, to his _family_.

            _Dean, don’t let them do this. Dean, please_. The unspoken words screamed across the space between them, and Dean tried to toss John’s arm off, but his own limbs weren’t moving right, brain scrambled by the collision with the wall and being choked half to death before that.

            And then they vanished, the suits dragging Sam, and it was just Lilith left.

            “Pleasure doing business with you, John.”

            Dean felt his body being baptized in the righteous fire of sheer, unadulterated irascibility. “I’ll kill you, bitch, I swear, I’ll rip your _heart_ out!”

            Lilith sneered, and slammed the door shut.

            And just like that, everything that had been keeping him standing—minutes, weeks, months—gave out. Dean sagged over John’s arm, lightheaded and saturated, undone, as the demons dragged Sam out of his life just as quickly as he’d first come in.

            Scruffy kid in the Snatcher cage, with the smile to die for.

            The person who’d saved Dean, from the tripwire, from all the crap after that night. Manchester, and the monster who’d rushed him in the first Qualifier. Everything they’d been building for eight months, the person Dean was supposed to protect.

Destroyed by a demonic contract signed in the blood of whomever had sold Sam to Lilith in the first place.

            With a grunt and a sniff of, “Mary,” John let Dean loose, finally, stumbling across the room to kneel beside Mary’s limp body, cupping his hand to her cheek, murmuring her name, trying to rouse her, assessing the damage Lusiver had done.

            Without John holding him up, Dean’s legs forgot their own strength, plummeting him to his knees. He didn’t fight it. Didn’t want to stand, or fall, or do anything except chase the demons down. Even knowing how it would end: his death, gift wrapped and handed back to his parents.

            Dean ducked his head, clenching his jaw until his teeth clicked audibly together:

            “ _SAM_!”

           

 

End Book One

 

           

 


	19. Part II: Fifteen Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sam taken back by Lilith, Dean has no one to protect and nothing to fight for. He only has one goal.
> 
> Bring Sam home.

Chapter Eighteen: Fifteen Miles

 

            Shadows clung to the corners of the house, encroaching on his heels with every step he took.

            It was overbearingly warm in the living room, the first thing John noticed when he walked out of the kitchen, wringing a wet washcloth between his hands. Warm, and close, and he’d been too concerned with taking care of his family to bother cleaning up the shattered vase on the floor. The dent in the wall from demons colliding with the plaster would be a bruise they’d have to bear, at least for now.

            John’s eyes settled on Dean; propped on the couch, knees cocked halfway to his chest, he was weighing the dogtags in his hands, staring at his muddied reflection on the tarnished surface. The glow of the fireplace from behind him threw a backwards inscription across Dean’s skin.

            John approached him, sinking down on the edge of the couch. “How you holdin’ up, Deano?”

            “I’m good.” Dean said huskily; there was an eggplant-sized knot on his forehead and overlapping bruises circling his throat in a gritty collar from the demon’s iron-tight fingers. His eyes were dim, so flat and emotionless they were almost gray.

            John leaned forward, draped the washcloth over the knot and one of Dean’s eyes. He left his hand there, fingers tousled in Dean’s hair, trying to catch his gaze. “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.” Dean dropped the dogtags, letting them swing from his necklace, and he looked up with the smallest imitation of a smile John had ever seen. “You?”

            “Few cuts. Can’t hardly feel ’em.”

            Dean seemed to take that in stride, turning his head to stare out the window behind the couch.

            Night had encompassed their solitary settlement in Lawrence, Kansas, and the shadows stretched wider then ever, a darkness the fire couldn’t scatter, something hot and heavy and suffocating that settled over them all.

            Six hours had passed since Lilith had taken Sam away.

            Six hours for the grief to turn to anger; six hours for the anger to turn to guilt. The kind that crept up inside John’s throat and threatened to finish what the demons had started, killing him outright.

            Whatever reservations John still held toward Sam, the panic, the fear for his own life and wellbeing that John had seen in Sam’s eyes—that had been completely real, the essence of undiluted terror. And in his terror, Sam had looked to them to save him; had pleaded with Dean, in a way that had torn John’s heart into a thousand glossy shards. Sam, the battered but passionate underdog of the Prelims, the rue of almost every Pit he stepped into; Sam, who was Mary’s helper, John’s partner in protection, the source behind almost every smile, every good thing that Dean had, every good thing Dean had chosen to be since they’d found Sam at that Snatcher nest.

            Sam, crying out for them to help him.

            And they’d just stood by.

            The logic within John knew that fighting back would’ve resulted in his death, Dean’s death, Mary’s death; he’d felt as much from a twitch of power off of Lusiver, the dangerous glances Lilith had flung like fighting stances.

            But that didn’t assuage his guilt; because Sam had fought for them, relentlessly, under every impossible fight and circumstance they’d put him through.

            And they’d let Lilith take him.

            Dean sniffed, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Ah, this is jacked up.”

            “Don’t I know it.” John stood, surprised that his legs even remembered how to work. “I’m gonna go check on your mother. Think you’ll be all right?”

            “Yeah, dad, I’m not a cripple.” Dean cuffed the retort with a light laugh, but there was no passion behind it, no feeling of any kind, really. Just going through the motions.

            John rested a hand briefly on Dean’s head, then made his way upstairs.

            After—and John only let himself think _after_ , because the rest of that filled in for itself—after _everything_ , he’d had to wrestle with the crippling fear that Mary was dead.

            She hadn’t been, and if there was one good thing at the end of this, it was that Lusiver had spared her. He’d knocked her unconscious, but John hadn’t seen anything hinting at permanent damage; so he’d carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed in the master bedroom before he’d gone back to take care of Dean.

            The door, which he’d left open on purpose the last time he’d checked on her, was shut. John felt equal parts relieved and anxious; because if the door was closed, Mary had closed it; which meant she was awake and on her feet. But it also meant that something was happening that she didn’t want them to see.

            He leaned his weight, shoulder, ribs, hip, against the door. “Mary?”

            He heard a faint cough of a reply, then a throat clearing. “Come in.”

            John tested the knob, found it unlocked, and slowly eased it open.

            Mary was perched on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands. She was still wearing the shirt John had sprayed with the sink nozzle, crinkle-dry and spattered with blood. There was a discolored patch already turning nicotine-yellow and mud-brown in splotches on her cheek.

            “Hey.” John murmured, crossing his arms. “Feel all right?”

            “None of this is all right, John.” Her voice cracked ever-so-slightly, betraying pain. “They took Sam.”

            She’s already been unconscious when the demons had left, dragging Sam with them; John had to assume she’d checked the guest room, even peeked downstairs, and drawn the conclusion for herself. “I know.”

            “Dean is—”

            “Dean’s handling it.” John tilted his head, coming aware for the first time of the soft whisper of music from the ancient battery-powered boombox on the floor beside the bed. A few seconds more, and he recognized the song. “Jane Siberry. I gave you this tape—”

            “For my birthday.” Mary finished, speaking mostly to her palms. “I remember.”

            John couldn’t explain the feeling that blossomed in his chest, a warmth inside the coldness that was the horror of the day. He’d thought she’d thrown out every gift, every memento of their lives together when she’d left for New York.

            _Calling on Angels_ began to play, the haunting whispers, names of the saints filling in the gap that words couldn’t express between John and Mary.

            “Mare,” John began, finally, and cleared his throat when his voice caught. “I know you loved that boy.”

            “Don’t,” Mary straggled in a breath that sounded like a sob waiting to burst. “I’m not the only one. He mattered to Dean and deep down, John, I _know_ he mattered to you.”

            John didn’t deny, didn’t rebuff, because what was the point? No apologies, no might-have-beens, would bring Sam back from over the edge. That line they’d been toeing for what seemed like so much longer than eight months, that merciless gap between _human_ and _Faceless_ , black and white, right and wrong—over the edge, now, spiraling toward the bottom.

            John sat beside her on the bed, hanging his wrists from his knees. “I wish I could make this right.”

            Mary surprised him by sliding her arm under his, her hand rubbing his forearm, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. It was heartbeats, seconds of silence later, when John felt her tears begin to branch across his sleeve.

            He reached across himself, with his free hand, cradling the side of her head against him. “I’m sorry, Mare.” He burned, his chest and throat and eyes scalding.

            “It’s not your fault,” She murmured. “You did everything you could.”

            The chorus of the song trickled in, a lyrical prayer speaking words that flowed under their skin, and Mary drew away, thumbing the tears from the corners of her eyes. John stood, offered his hand to her.

            “Dean’s gonna need us,” He said, and then, amended, “We’re all gonna need each other, if we’re gonna make it through this.”

            With a nod, Mary laid her hand in his, and John drew her to her feet.

            And suddenly Mary’s arms were around him, her fingers finding a home in the back of his shirt, her cheek to his chest, just over his heart. After a hesitant moment to see if she would pull back—and she didn’t—John let his arms fall exactly where they wanted, around her waist, around her back, pulling her close. And for the first time in almost thirteen years, John was holding Mary, the warmth of her body the same as his.

            There wasn’t anything to say; nothing that could heal the hurts that had been doled out that day. So John rested his cheek on Mary’s hair, and let his eyes fall shut; let their strengths share, leaning into each other. Something that had crumbled them for days and months before she and Dean had left, before they’d struck a crossroads and parted ways. And this time, John sensed, there was no dividing.

            No reason to divide.

            No more Prelims; no more Leagues. No more monsters. No more _Sam_. And in months gone by John would’ve swallowed his losses and found another monster, bartered one off of Bobby or off of a Snatcher. But there was no injured, wayward Faceless in a dormant nest waiting for them; there was no second Sam. Dean had been right, from the very beginning: Sam was different, Sam was special.

            You couldn’t replace something that had ingrained itself so deeply into your life.

            So Dean and Mary would stay, without the risk of Sam’s advancement into the Leagues bringing unwanted attention to Dean’s history, to what had happened in New York, to the subtle threat against Dean’s life with the promise of a Death Camp hanging over his head.

            But the price had been too high.

            And the money that’s tucked away wouldn’t last forever.

            John breathed out harshly, stirring Mary’s hair, and shut his eyes tight.

 

-X-

 

            Instinct screamed against logic: _go find Sam_.

            Dean sprawled on his back on his bed, one arm holding the pillow against his side, the other tucked behind his head. His foot propped on the floor, tapping an arrhythmic beat; the house was dormant, quiet. If he ignored the ratcheting pain in his skull and the way his stomach was digesting itself with a sour sense of dread, he could almost believe this was just any other night.

            His mind chased itself through a foray of possibilities; if he’d stayed out longer with Sam, seen the demons coming; if they’d left for the mini-mart to get food a little sooner; if they’d been at a Pit, hours away, hours _safer_.

            But they hadn’t, and that was what it divided down to, the equation that spared no leniency: they’d been here, and now Sam wasn’t, Sam was gone, bought off by a parchment contract and the threat against all their lives. Dragged out with childlike fear in his eyes, begging Dean to help him when Dean himself had been helpless.

            The sound that Dean would carry with him for the rest of his life.

            _Go after Sam._

He rolled over on his side, tucking an arm under his ear, gingerly avoiding that rough patch of tender, bruise-dappled skin near his hairline.

            What was he supposed to do? Go toe-to-toe with Lilith? Even if he could somehow find a way to take Sam’s case to court, whatever courts were left, the judge and jury would be swarming with demons, or people bought off by them.

            Staggered; stuck in the middle. His world swirling out of control, flush, flush, straight down the drain.

            Dean tucked his head, feeling the pressure weighing down like a wet, warm blanket around his head. He wanted to sleep for a month; and then he wanted to brain Lilith with his fists. And then bring Sam home. And then sleep for another month.

            The problem lay in braining Lilith, because no one would know how to get close.

            No one would—

            Dean was up, out, dragging himself to his feet, leaving the dark room in just his boxers and throwing on his jacket when he reached the bottom of the stairs. He knew where John had left his phone, on the coffee table before the demons had arrived. Treading softly so as not to wake John, asleep on the couch, Dean grabbed the phone and slipped outside.

            It was dark, and clear, thousands and thousands of stars sprayed across the black dome of the sky. Dean sat down, couldn’t sit down, started pacing a short, determined circuit in front of the house instead, raking a hand back through his hair as the phone rang, on and on like a flatline, like the last dull buzz of a heartbeat before it gives out.

            “Pick up, pick up, _come on_! Don’t you drop out on me, too.” Dean growled into that taunting drone.

            Finally, with one chime to go before the voicemail, it scuffled to life. “S’three in the morning, this better be the damn Apocalypse.”

            “Bobby, it’s me.” Dean’s voice broke slightly, and he didn’t scramble to cover it up, turning toward the road. “Sam’s gone.”

            He could hear Bobby sitting up, the creak of old mattress springs carrying down the line. “Come again?”

            “Sam.” Dean buried a hand in his own bristly hair. “Demons took him, Bobby, I don’t…I don’t know what to do.”

            “All right, son, just hold on there.” Bobby said, serious, man-in-charge. “You wanna run me through this from the top?”

            So Dean did, hoping that it would feel, somehow, like cleansing an infected wound, that it would align everything, reveal some kind of pattern, some way out. But when he reached the harrowing, “And then they just hauled him out the front door,” he felt no better. If anything, the rock-solid black matter in his chest just settled lower, making his ribs ache.

            “Crawly bastards,” Bobby cussed quietly.

            “We gotta help him, Bobby. Those demons are gonna torture him. You shoulda seen Sam’s face, he—” His voice catching, again. Dean closed his eyes, banishing the memory by sheer willpower. “Tell me you know of a way to fix this. How can I get close to Lilith?”

            “Short of a freakin’ miracle? I ain’t rolled between the sheets with many demons. Sorry, kid, I wish I could help. I do. I know that boy meant a helluva lot to you and your folks. But now’s not the time to think about revenge. Now’s the time when you gotta think about family.”

            “That’s what I’m _doing_.”

            “I’m not talkin’ about _Sam_ - _family_ , I’m talking about your mom, and your dad. There’s still bills to be paid and mouths to feed, and you gotta consider what you’re gonna do now Sam’s gone.”

            “Well, I was _thinking_ about saving his ass.” Dean snapped. “I’m not just gonna let him rot in Lilith’s cage, Bobby.” There was a pregnant, heavy silence, and Dean’s eyes widened, cutting sideways. “ _Bobby_!”

            “Look, big cities are like monster Death Camps. They ride ’em hard and fast and toss ’em out when they’re all used up. I hate bein’ blunt, but you’re a grown man and you oughta know the truth.” Bobby rattled a deep breath. “Shy of the first few weeks, you’ll wanna start looking for Sam in rivers and landfills.”

            The implication crashed over Dean, flushing up a furnace of anger that boiled his blood. “All right, you know what? Screw you, too.”

            “Dean—”

            “I’ll take care of Sam myself. Like I always do.”

            “Dean!”

            He clapped the phone shut and wired his fist tight over it, pressing it to his lips for an instant, eyes sliding shut. Hiding in the total darkness behind his eyelids, giving himself a chance to think past the overwhelming notion that he had no idea which steps to take from here. For the first time in months, it wasn’t as simple as the leaps and bounds between fights; it wasn’t easy, wasn’t the bite of molar-fists on skin or the way him and Sam could talk just by looking at each other.

            The darkness shirked its peace with a sudden, brutal replay of the day’s events, and Dean’s eyes flipped wide, traveling along the empty road outside the house.

            “I’ll find you, Sam. Wherever you are, man, I’ll bring you back.” He tapped the phone against his thigh. “I’ll fix this, Sammy.”

 

-X-

 

            Dean buried himself in newspapers and books.

            More often that not, that was where Mary and John could find him: sitting Indian-style on the bed in the guest room, a congregation of feathery pages in various form and function surrounding him. He wielded a red pen like the righteous sword of God, circling and underlining anything that felt like it was important: clippings about demons, about big cities, about how League fights worked. Slowly sussing out a prototype of sorts: that demons never had to work their way up through Prelim ranks. They mingled with them, brought themselves down to that level, but from every report he found, every recount that brought on the memory of gliding, of empty spaces in a rowdy congregation, it all seemed to be random. The pattern was that there _wasn’t_ a pattern.

            Demons weren’t rising through the ranks by fifty rounds and two Qualifiers. They were jumping between Prelims and Leagues whenever it suited them.

            They were studying their prey.

            The knowledge struck Dean with a sizzle of trepidation after an hour of mapping the leapfrog reports about a demon named Meg, who’d been in as many Prelims as League fights and had a notorious habit of teaching her monsters dirty fighting: spine-snapping, paralytic underhanded blows or outright brutality that ended Prelims too fast to please, but somehow seemed to mesh in with the Leagues.

            Dean sat back, carded both hands through his hair, folded them at the nape of his neck. “Holy crap.”

            That was their logic: studying the competition. It made sense, then, how they’d had eyes on Sam; not just Azazel, but maybe other Handlers, too; Handlers who they’d bought off, humans working for the other side.

            “Find anything interesting?”

            Dean looked up from the scattered mess, to John, standing in the doorway toweling his hands dry. John had been quiet, to say the least, in the week since Sam had been viciously yanked from their lives. There were overburdened, unspoken things that hung between him and Dean; subjects of money, and progress, and the forty-eight fights under their belts and a Prelim license. Sam’s mantel of triumph, his legacy that could be taken up by another monster, if one could be found.

            These were the things that lurked under the table, ankle-nipping with icy teeth, during every family dinner; these were the glances between Dean and John that popped like sparks, and they never said a word. They didn’t have to.

            “Yeah, maybe.” Dean capped the pen with his teeth and tapped it against the newspaper. “I think I figured out what the demons are doing. Looks like they’re trying to scope places out. Maybe they’re buying up Handlers, I dunno.”

            “Buying up.” John echoed, his tone inviting Dean to explain.

            “Money, I guess? A slot in the Leagues?” Dean shrugged. “If they keep the deal under wraps, they can make the same one over and over again without anyone spreading the word. Y’know, offer the same prize to anyone who gives ’em inside intel.”

            “That’s exactly what they’re doing.” John’s voice was flat, and Dean looked up at him, sharply.

            “How d’you know?”

            John grabbed the chair from the corner and spun it toward the bed, straddling it with his arms crossed on the back. “’Bout six months before you and your mother came back, Lilith cornered me at a fight in Milwaukee. Offered me a job.”

            “What kinda job?”

            “It sounded like she wanted to put a hit out on some humans. I didn’t ask. The less I knew, the better. But she tried to hire me.”

            “And you turned her down?”

            John’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not stupid, Dean. I don’t make deals with demons.”

            “Okay, touchy-touchy.” Dean held up both hands. “Just checking.”

            John rested his hand on the side of his neck. “Anyway, I never saw Lilith again. Why she came looking for me in the first place, I don’t…” He trailed off, his face taking on a reflective quality, internal and brooding. Dean waited for the conclusion of the sentence, cocking his head forward slightly.

            “You don’t—?” He prompted after a few seconds.

            “Doesn’t matter.” John stood. “Dinner’s ready.”

            The thought of another can of cold beans, another night pretending none of them could see the empty fourth chair at the table, made Dean’s gut kindle with aggravation. “Yeah, I think I’m just gonna stay up here.”

            “Dean,” John began.

            “No, y’know what, dad?” Dean pinned a glare on him. “Sam’s gone. All right? Sam’s gone, he’s out there with _Lilith_. They’re not eating chicken dinners, or rubbing each other’s feet. Those demonic sons of bitches are probably racking him right-freaking- _now_. So quit _askin’_ me to sit through the apple-pie life and pretend I don’t have a job to do, when I know I’m the only chance Sam’s got.”

            The outburst left John brittle and silent, watching him closely. Dean matched his stare, equally defiant, until John shook his head and left without a word.

            Dean shoved the newspapers flat on the blanket. “ _Dammit_.”

            And five minutes later, John was back, setting a plate down on the chair and letting himself out again without a word.

            And that became the pattern in the days to follow; John never pushed him, never demanded that he leave the confines of the house. Dean’s skin started to sallow out from lack of sunlight, dark circles painted on where he couldn’t sleep. Every spare thought, every spare minute, was consumed with trying to figure out a way to get Sam back; some loophole they’d missed, some detail Lilith might’ve conveniently forgotten to mention. But the more he researched, past fights and old stories that were almost rumors and legends in their own right, the more the hollow, sucking black-hole feeling in his chest expanded, trying to swallow the rest of him.

            Every fighter in the League was under contract; they were branded as a supplement, only ever, from what he could parse out, as a precautionary measure. By League standards, Sam really was Lilith’s, bought and paid for.

            But by whom, Dean couldn’t determine; every record of Sam’s family was elusive. All they had was a chicken-scrawl signature on a contract, barely a name though there might’ve been an ‘n’ somewhere in the middle, according to John.

            Every night that Dean went to bed with empty fists grasping at straws, devoid of concrete facts, his frustration grew.

            It came to a head one night in the middle of May; Dean’s racing mind wove together his research with facts and events in his own past, and his nightmares took him to the Leagues.

            It was a whitewash of brilliant light, like the demons in all their infinite cunning had found a way to harness the sun. Everything was cast in blue; arena seats, flat arena floor made of glass. The people, stiff blue mannequins, eyes trained on the fight.

            Dean, a frozen spectator, watching with them.

            Far below—vertigo, hundreds of feet, though the floor seemed to bungee closer and farther again as he stared—two fighters circled each other. One was a mishmash of a human and a black dog, coarse black hair and a burly chest.

            The other was Sam.

            Dean came out of his seat running, careening down the aisles, from his seat to the side of the arena in a few impossible steps. He collided with empty air, an invisible wall, his flat hands leaving sweaty streaks down the surface.

            “Sam!” His voice, and his movements, were underwater-garbled, and he didn’t think Sam could hear him. “ _Sam_!”

            With Dean looking on, the other fighter crunched Sam flat on the floor and grabbed his head in massive, paw-like hands. Sam’s eyes found Dean, his mouth forming the words, “ _Dean, help me_!”, before his neck snapped like fractured ice.

            “ _Saaaa-aaam_!”

            The beast turned on him, Lilith’s face in a grotesque, misshapen mask.

            Dean’s eyes bolted open and the beat of warmdrums sounded off in his wrists and temples, his body taking a moment to catch up to the fact that he wasn’t in any real danger. He sat up, coughing at the skuzzy taste in his mouth; the lantern beside the bed had run itself low and there was a tacky feeling on his skin that revealed itself to be red marker when he swiped it with his thumb.

            “This is stupid,” He accused the silence.

            The silence of the guest room. _Sam’s room_.

            Dean wanted to train; wanted to pour his restless energy, his emotions, into something that could hit back. Instead the grief just absorbed everything he threw at it, every distraction, every contour of his game-face. It absorbed and melded and still crept up on him as soon as he gave himself over to a few hours of sleep every night.

            Dean shoved an armful of books and newspapers onto the floor, ignoring the thump-clatter- _crash_ they made, jamming his feet into his shoes. He left his hoodie, left his jacket, and let himself out, glad that for once John wasn’t at his post on the couch.

            It was still warm even after sunset, the product of late spring where the ground seemed to soak up the day’s heat only to expel it during the night. The other contributing factor was the rain: soft and muggy, it fell in a steady shower, rebounding off the grass and creating a humid, hugging haze. Dean headed for his truck first, then decided it wasn’t enough; wasn’t enough to drive, to push the old vehicle until it rattled apart at the seams. The feeling of his foot cramming the gas pedal against the scoop of the footwell just wouldn’t be enough.

            He vaulted the fence and hit the ground running.

            It had been a long, long time since Dean had run alone; he hadn’t bothered to get up early enough to do it at Bobby’s, and at home he hadn’t been left to himself on these wide, winding roads, not since Sam had recovered from the Qualifier in Lancaster. Dean had always had a companion, his constant, gangly shadow with a mop of chestnut hair and laughter in its eyes.

            There was no sound whatsoever aside from the repetitive slap of his feet on the pavement; splintered from the winter’s ice storms, where the water had seeped in and under and created potholes and slit dark limbs into the asphalt. Dean ran, wildly at first, outgunning his phantoms, the demons snapping at his heels. Demons named _fear_ and _protection_ and _Lilith_. Demons named _Sam_. Dean pelted headlong toward the trees, then steered himself sharply off the road and into the underbrush.

            He plunged over briar patches and bushes, shoved himself around tree trunks and _oh man, Sam would’ve loved this_. Sam would’ve loved the challenge of the changing terrain, the difficulty that presented itself in not being able to see what was directly on the other side of an obstacle. Not until it reared itself into your path, and tossed your world on its head, and why had they never come out here before?

            He remembered why, abruptly, when he slowed to catch his breath, bracing his hand against a tree. Bending double, Dean let thick, mucous-tinted saliva sling its way from his open mouth, the rain beading from his hair and running down his cheeks, dripping from his angular nose.

            A low branch snapped somewhere nearby, the violent echo of his nightmare, and Dean swung his head up, scanning the close-packed trees. He couldn’t see a shadow that moved amiss, anything gliding that should’ve been walking. But there was a newfound alertness, in absence of his mad dash; the feeling of being watched was back, something that had herded him and Sam close to home some days while they were training.

            Dean stretched, one leg, then the other, still studying his surroundings for any signs of life; there were none that he could immediately see, but the prickling on his neck told him enough to make him wary. He started running again, pacing himself this time, acutely aware of his labored breathing.

            He alternated between a jog and a casual lope until he broke the trees, then slowed to a walk, skin steaming where the rain and sweat mingled. He didn’t care that he couldn’t see, viewing the world through a misty smokescreen of a downpour. Maybe he didn’t want to see any more than what was in front of his face; maybe he never had. Blind faith had gotten him nowhere and gained him nothing but the feeling of _missing_ , of having something to miss.

            It pissed him off that he’d ever let himself get this attached, this deep in. That he hadn’t banked on Lilith showing up, making their lives hell.

            That he hadn’t protected Sam like he’d promised, that day in the barn: _Work with me, here. Help me fix this, and I swear, I’ll watch your back. I’m not gonna let you get hurt. You trust me?_

“Son of a _bitch_!” He howled at the resplendent sky.

            Like a furious reply, thunder shuddered the clouds.

            Dean kept walking, for how long he didn’t know, drowning in rain and his own thoughts until, suddenly, white light guttered on the horizon. Dean stopped, mopped his wet eyes with his wet arm, squinting. Thinking that, maybe, he’d caught up to the belly of the storm, the lightning he’d been tailing for the last—how many hours?

            It was too constant, too vivid; artificial. _Fluorescent_.

            Another quarter mile, and it emerged from the gloom.

            The mini-mart was like an island in the dark sea of empty Kansas outback, lights on and the half-burned-out, red-and-blue _OPEN_ sign blinking in sporadic breaches, beckoning him in. Dean went, mostly because he was parched and tired, and when he stepped inside his feet squeaked across the linoleum.

            “Hey,” He called to the bored-looking cashier behind the counter. “You got a drinking fountain in here?”

            The pimply-faced man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Water bottles are free.”

            Dean half-slid his way down the waxed floor toward the back refrigerator, yanking the door open and welcoming the blast of cold air on his face. He pulled out a water bottle, leaned his weight against the door and popped the cap, slurping down half of the twenty-four ounces in one steady swallow.

            He backhanded his mouth, licked his chapped lower lip, then finished the bottle more slowly and looked around for something stronger. He settled on a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, Bobby’s favorite, and paid for it with his last twenty dollars from the bar fight in the No Name town. The cashier accepted the wet bill with his nose in the air, and it was a mighty and admirable effort for Dean not to relocate the man’s nose to his forehead with one punch.

            He sat on the curb outside, just under the plastic awning of the mini-mart, taking small sips of the whiskey on a heaving stomach and watching the storm toss and rupture, black clouds fracturing every few seconds in jagged orange-white stripes.

            It was always his way to plan the next move; have an idea for the next tier, how to challenge Sam. After the next Pit, this is what we’re going to do. Fight, take a break, train. Keep things organized, in a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of way.

            How was he supposed to plan around a kidnapping, around his life getting thrown upside-down again? Moving to New York had left him tied in so many knots he’d taken a year to untangle himself; then he’d gotten dragged back to Lawrence. And now he was suspended, his life in a stasis of _what next_? He could search for a job, plunge himself up to his elbows in the same tail-chasing venture that had plagued him while they were living with the Harvelles; he could find another monster, and spend every fight in a state of lethargic anger, watching the thing, whatever it was, get ripped to shreds.

            Dean cussed and leaned his weight back on one hand, tossing the whiskey bottle and catching it, over and over again, with the other.

            Presently, he heard a familiar guttural rumble that could only belong to one vehicle in particular. He sat up straight and faced the road, faced the gauzy fog that parted under the high-beams of his sun-bleached pickup truck as it bumped down the road and ground to a halt in front of him, splashing mud against the cuffs of his sweatpants.

            The engine cut and Mary climbed out, rubbing her arms, face wrinkled with sleepiness. “Dean, it’s five in the morning. What are you doing out here?”

            “Couldn’t sleep.” Dean arched an eyebrow and took a drink. “Went for a run.”

            Mary blinked, her eyes sticking shut, like she wasn’t sure whether or not the sight of him, drenched and holding booze on a minimart corner so early in the morning, was a dream. “Dean, it’s fifteen miles to the house.”

            “Huh.” Dean put that through his mental calculations. “Guess that’s why my ass is so sore.”

            Mary seemed to rouse herself slightly as she sat on the curb beside him, holding out her hand. Dean passed her the whiskey and she surprised him by cleaning the mouth of the bottle with her sleeve, then taking a drink of her own. She didn’t even cough.

            “You’re soaked. It obviously took you a few hours to run this far.” She passed the bottle back to him. “And you’re drinking poor man’s whiskey in the middle of nowhere.” She reached over, brushing her hand through the hair beside his temple, and Dean leaned into her touch. “What’s on your mind?”

            “It’s, uh,” Dean cleared his throat, studied the bottle, the porous concrete underneath. “It’s Sam.”

            “Sam.” Mary sighed the name, her breath fogging the damp air.

            “Spent…eight months looking out for that kid.” Dean smiled, round-cheeked, empty, tongue-poking-out, crows-feet crinkling. But it still didn’t reach his eyes. “Now that Lilith’s got him, I don’t…” He shrugged, the motion filling in the gaps.

            “How do you go on without something that mattered to you, so much, it became a part of you?”

            Dean wasn’t sure what that meant, but the wistful tone of Mary’s voice made him think maybe she understood where he was coming from.

 “How’d you do it?” He tucked his head beneath the line of his shoulders, swinging the bottle by its neck between two fingers, avoiding her gaze. “When we left. Or, uh, when dad left us.”

            “I didn’t.” Mary said. “Sweetheart, I tried. I did what I had to, to keep you alive. But when you love something that much, and it’s gone, it leaves a hole that you can’t fill.”

            Dean scrunched his mouth, looked up and out, toward the rain. “What’m’I supposed to do?”

            Mary stroked her fingers through his hair. “What do Winchesters always do, Dean? We _survive_.” She smiled slightly, hooking a finger under his chin. “We’re no good to Sam if we’re dead.”

            Dean nodded, mustered up a cocky smile. “Yeah.”

            Mary slid the bottle from between his fingers and tossed it into the bushes. “No more late night runs or getting drunk. That won’t help him, either.”

            “Helps me.”

            “No, it numbs you. But being numb is dangerous, Dean. It makes you less aware.”

            Times like these, Dean remembered that John wasn’t the only one who’d been a Hunter back in the day.

            “Now, come on.” Mary ruffled her hand over the top of his head. “It’s late—or early, depending on how you look at it—and you need sleep.”

            “I need more _booze_.”

            “March.” Mary pushed him toward the truck, and Dean went.

            They didn’t speak, for the whole of the drive that was a lot shorter, Dean had to admit, than walking. When they pulled up at the house, sunset was on the way, graying a thin strip behind the trees. Mary parked the truck and pulled the keys from the ignition, and then they sat, saying nothing.

            “You think I can do it?” Dean asked, watching his own reflection on the dust-tainted window. “Y’think I can get him back?”

            “I think if anyone can, it’s you. Hm?” Mary kissed his cheek, and Dean closed his eyes, tucking his head down.

            “Yeah, maybe.”

            Mary opened her door, sliding out. “You need a hot shower and sleep. Give your mind time to rest, Dean. Rest is what is needs.”

            Rest sounded like a good idea.

            But the shower, which should’ve loosened his muscles and eased him toward a less haunted sleep, only served to reawaken everything in his chest that Dean had valiantly silenced with alcohol. By the time he was dressed again, his nerves were jangling like keys, like chains striking bars, like the sound that always sent Sam over the cliff, over again; he’d been getting better at it, could snap himself out of it in seconds now rather than minutes.

            Had been able to. Before.

            Now, that much and worse was coming for him.

            And Dean couldn’t force that thought away as he stepped into his room, glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling and his hoodie crumpled on the pillow. Couldn’t stop it as he crammed the deadbolt home on the door and slid down into a crouch with his back to it, his arms up like a guard in front of his face, hands clasped, forehead resting on his forearms. He stayed frozen that way, a gargoyle in the shadows, until he couldn’t risk the darkness behind his eyes anymore.

            He looked up, and there she was: his guitar, straight across from him, leaning against the foot of the bed and waiting for him. He hadn’t touched her in the weeks since Lilith had taken Sam.

            And suddenly his fingers ached for her like nothing else he’d ever known.

So Dean sat cross-legged against the locked door, shirtless, still damp from his shower, with his guitar balanced on his knees. He played John Denver's _Country Roads_ until sweat dripped down his bare back and the calluses on his fingers grew calluses of their own. He played, ignoring the wetness on his cheeks that tasted like salt and misery and failure. Weaving the unsolvable problems into the lyrics he knew by heart. He played until all he could say was, “ _I’m sorry_ ,” one arm draped along the voluptuous curve of the guitar, his forehead resting on his wrist.

 _I’ll fix this, Sam, I promise_.

 

-X-

 

Hundreds of miles away from Lawrence, from safety, from the only home he’d never known, he found himself mercifully alone.

Ribbed into a cage that smelled like coppery blood and destitution, Sam sat with arms locked loosely around his knees, his head tilted back into the groove between the bars; he ignored the near-permanent blemish of bruises flushed across his skin, the ache in his bones and the overwhelming saturation of loneliness that told him there was no hand to squeeze the back of his neck and reassure him, no gentle touch to mend his hurts or make him feel welcomed or belonging.

 He hummed the chords of a song that meant him and Dean; he hummed a song that reminded him of home.

 


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Nineteen: Everything to Lose

 

            “You wanna do— _what_?”

            “It’s been a month and a half, Dean, I think it’s time we started looking at our options, here.”

            They were driving, Dean and John, to a secluded Pit fight an hour east of Lawrence. Not for anything, they’d decided, except to feel the adrenaline lacing through their blood again. _A month and a half_ settled itself between them. After a month and a half, Dean had stopped looking for Sam to come down the stairs; after a month and a half, he’d stopped turning to glance over his shoulder, about to say something to Sam only to find his living shadow had vanished.

            After a month and a half of searching, with Mary sometimes helping, or John; after a month and a half of _nothing_ and _not a chance_ , John dropped the bombshell when they were so far out in the middle of nowhere, Dean couldn’t afford to just climb out and tell him he’d walk home.

            Which, now that he considered it, might’ve been John’s plan all along.

            “Our other—?” Dean echoed, the bite to his voice almost chilling the humid air. “Sam is still out there, and you’re talking about _replacing_ him?”

            “I’m talking about doing what it takes to keep this family alive.” John said firmly; like he’d thought it over, plotted the whole conversation in his head. It was typical John, heading off an argument by predicting one. “The money’s running out, Dean. No matter how much we budget, nothing’s cheap. Food, gas for the Impala, the water bill,” He broke off, sliding the flat of his hand across his unshaven jaw. “Look. I know you don’t want to forget about Sam—”

            “Damn right I don’t.”

            John went on like Dean hadn’t spoken, “But I don’t have that luxury. I’m not expecting you to embrace another monster, to bring it into this family and treat it like it’s one of our own. You’re right. No one can replace Sam, as a _person_. As what he was, to you—to _us_ ,” He amended, when Dean started to protest. “But his shoes can be filled. At least for now.”

            “You want me to just train some bum monkey off the streets?” Dean draped an arm out the open window and gave John a look, all high eyebrows and face bracketed with disbelief, and watched John’s fingers weave themselves tighter than vices around the steering wheel. “I’m not gonna do it.”

            “I know.” John agreed, which was surprising. “The only reason that worked with Sam was because he was willing. He was willing to learn from you. Half the time, I thought that was what he _wanted_.”

            Dean stared out the window, the landscape zipping past, a gold-green-gray blur. “Sam never said much about what he wanted. Always said he didn’t care. Or he just went along with whatever the hell the rest of us asked him to do.”

            A profound quiet swelled between them, punctuated and dispelled when John cleared his throat, gruffly.

            “I already talked to Bobby. He’s looking into finding us another fighter. We put it through two Prelims and actually make it, and we’re in the Leagues.”

            “Whoo-hoo.” Dean said, flatly.

            “Dean, have you lost your mind?” John demanded pertly, and the question caught him so off guard, Dean twisted on the bench seat to look at him.

            “What?”

            “We’re two fights away from the _Leagues_. _Lilith_ , is in the Leagues. Lilith has Sam.” John slid a glance toward him. “If you want a shot at her, this our best bet. With all the security around her, she’s dug in like a tick. But when she’s at the Leagues, she’s exposed. Out in the open. So if we make it two more rounds with a piss-poor fighter, we have a straight shot to Lilith.”

            “Meaning a straight shot to _Sam_.” Dean concluded, rapidly warming to the idea.

            “You got it.”

            Dean drew back, slouching against the window, his mind playing through all the possible scenarios; his favorite being taking the Colt straight to Lilith and putting a bullet in her brain. But that, in itself, presented a dilemma.

            “We still gotta get past the Duchess,” Dean said, slowly. “Without Sam.”

            He glanced at John, hoping there was another plan wrapped inside his other, other plan. Some way around the most renowned fighter in the Pits aside from Sam himself. The Duchess, the vicious vampire, Gordon’s own personal prize fighter.

            John’s lips curled into a half-smile. “I’m still workin’ on that.”

            The hope fizzled out of the situation like it had been punctured. “Yeah.”

            The Pit fight was conducted in an old horse corral on some rancher’s seventeen acres of land. The audience was nothing more than the Handlers and their monsters, along with Dean and John hanging out on the fringes, but the fight itself was real enough. A glint of claws, the strobe of sunlight on a fang. The monsters ripped each other into fleshy hanks, wild with hunger and starved with bloodlust. Dean didn’t know their breeds; humanoids, for the most part. Six or eight of them, rotating batches.

            Now that he thought about it, Dean didn’t know if this fight really _did_ count on the ticket toward the Leagues. It was bloody, messy, sloppy. Ruthless.

            And the fights where demons reigned would be a thousand times worse.

            It struck Dean, as he paced on the outskirts of a tight human cluster, with John beside him, how completely and utterly blind he’d been. Seeing the fight, with no investment, he realized Sam had never left Lilith; not really. He’d never escaped the suicide cycle of the Pits.

            Because Dean had kept shoving him back into it anyway.

            And standing there, with hot, humid sunlight humming into his eyes, he couldn’t justify it; not for his family, not for survival, not for himself. They’d been holding Sam’s head underwater and he’d just _taken_ it. Just taken it and choked it down like it was his job. Taken the hits _for them_ , while they just pushed him down; gave him a second to breathe; pushed him down again.

            They’d been drowning him for months, not looking at him like something that mattered. Not even Dean, who’d felt every lash of pain that Sam had taken like it was his own pain to feel, his own burden to carry.

            The sudden, disarming sense of guilt had Dean walking away without a word to John, leaning his flat palms on the Impala’s hood; the sleeves of his rumpled hoodie rucked up to his elbows, his head down. His dogtags swung free, catching and cutting the light, tossing back the reflection of a _Handler_.

            “Dean?” John’s soft voice, coming up behind him. Worried.

            “I treated him like he was my property, dad.” Dean looked up, over his shoulder. “I didn’t even stop to think…the keys, man, everything, I thought I was trying to protect him. And this whole time I was just throwing him to the wolves.”

            John understood, with that intrinsic awareness that passes between fathers and sons. “I won’t say I knew Sam. He was an enigma, all right. But that boy loved you something fierce, Dean. We could all see it. You were the reason he lasted as long as he did.” John perched on the edge of the Impala, facing Dean. “Lilith was right about that much. He stayed in that fight because of you.”

            “S’my point.” Dean mumbled. “I let him take it. Hell, I _wanted_ him out there.” He wired his jaw tight, staring down at the glossy surface of the Impala. “I didn’t stop. I didn’t even hesitate. I just wanted him to win.”

            “That’s what we all wanted.”

            “What if that’s not what _Sam_ wanted?” The words didn’t come out with the punch he’d meant, they slid, hopeless, with a tinge of, _now we’ll never know_.

            “Sam was happy,” John said, surprising Dean with the surety of his tone. “Those last few weeks before Lilith came. You both were; I’d never seen you so on your game, Deano. You did a hell of a job training him.”

            “Yeah, so Lilith can put him through the ringer. Awesome.” Dean muttered, and he felt marginally worse when John didn’t deny it. “If we… _when_ we get Sam back, that’s it. We’re done. No more fights.”

            “Dean—”

            “I don’t care if it’s a waste of his talents, I don’t care if he goes soft, _I don’t care if it’s the end of the damn world_. We find some other way to deal with it. We’re not putting Sam out as bait.”

            And once again, John surprised him by saying, “Okay.”

            Dean swung an incredulous look toward him. “What, that’s it? _Okay_?”

“Okay.” John repeated, not an ounce of laughter in his face. “Look, we’re already on the market for another monster; if whatever we’re landed with happens to pull through, then as far as I’m concerned, Sam can retire.”

“And stay with us.” Dean hedged. John looked away. “ _Right_?”

“Yeah.” John sighed. “Rubs me wrong, but, yeah. Retired or in the game, Sam can stick around while we plan our next move.”

It held a deplorable lack of finality, a hint that maybe their lives wouldn’t be the last stop in Sam’s whirlwind existence, if the next move was to pull them all apart. But there was also a tinge to Dean’s thoughts that suggested John was just bluffing; reminded him that John hadn’t given Sam over to Lilith, even when faced with pain of death.

So maybe, things would be different. Maybe they all stood a chance.

“There’s nothing here.” John said, finally. “This Pit’s barely a Pit to begin with.” He creaked the driver’s side door open. “You ready?”

Dean sniffed, straightened. “Yep, I’m ready.”

“Deano,” John said, before Dean could slide into his seat. “Wasn’t your fault. Hell, none of it is. You did right by Sam. Better than I ever did by you.”

Dean glanced at the Pit, hearing the warm splatter of blood, the whoops and hollers of the Handlers. He shook his head. “Not sure I agree with ya there, dad.”

 

-X-

 

            Pits made for a bad habit, and stacking another bad habit on that made for a fraught lifestyle.

They coasted into town on the tail end of local Pits, some no bigger than the Handlers and fighters, others noticeably larger, locals trickling in for bets and booze and carousing. As much as Dean was John’s shadow, as John wheedled and corralled old contacts and sympathizers, John never let him in on the actual conversations; always insisted he wait, just inside eyeshot.

Dean grew rapidly acclimated to the sight of John walking back toward him, shoulders deliberately hunched. They’d climb into the Impala and drive away, leaving a thin mist of shame on the air behind them.

Money streamed through their empty hands. No bets. No fights. John called Bobby frequently, and Dean never did—too much bad feeling between them after the night Lilith had taken Sam. Handlers were avoiding using Bobby Singer because everyone knew that Bobby Singer was woven in with the Winchesters; and word on the street was, the Winchesters were on the market for a monster.

There was that, too, the bitter acid guilt of knowing that Bobby’s provision was dammed by his loyalty to their family. More and more, Dean felt like Midas with the plague, ruining everything he came into contact with.

It was raining, again, the day in another no-name town when Dean was wearily watching John talk to a small circle of men, and suddenly there was mud scooting from under boots as John shoved one of the Handlers, hard, hard enough to send him staggering back a step. Dean was at attention in a second, soaked jacket battering his knees, ready to step in and fight.

The man, whoever he was, didn’t seem inclined to fight; he held up both hands when John jabbed a finger in his face, seemed to be talking quietly rather than rising to a challenge. Eventually, as Dean watched, tensed, John brushed the men off and walked away, joining Dean beside the car.

“What happened?” Dean demanded, raindrops spraying from the tip of his nose.

John looked back at vigilant cluster of Handlers, watching them. “He said I’m a bad bet.” John admitted, which was as much honesty about those enigmatic conversations as Dean had ever gotten. “He’s right. They’ve all been right. I don’t pay my debts, I don’t…even when Sam was around, I was still in the hole. Trying to make my dues.”

“So no one’ll sell to you?”

John’s breath steamed in front of his face, a shawl of silver-white. “They don’t think I can pay ’em.”

And they were right; Dean never said it, John never said it, and with Mary it was almost taboo. But they didn’t have money to spare, to buy a monster off of anyone, including Bobby, who would’ve given them a price generous enough to make a grown man weep with gratitude.

            They were running out of time, and options, when their wounded, limping lives slammed to a violent halt.

            Dean would always remember that it was a Thursday.

            It started in the predawn hours in the barn; as a way to distract himself one late, sleepless night during a break from the books, Dean had strung the punching bag back onto the joists, had even taken the time to patch up the seams. Now his time was divided: between searching for a fighter with John, hitting the books, hard, and taking out every frustration in between on the defenseless punching bag.

            As time went on, he spent less time in the books; less time in the car, listening to the radio. Wherever Sam was, Lilith wasn’t plugging him into fights. The thought gave him relief, at first; until he remembered Sam as he’d come to them: a jittery, injured shell of a human being. All from being with Lilith, always behind the scenes, always her plaything, always somebody else’s target.

            Not knowing where Sam was, what he was doing, or what was being done to him, made things worse; if Dean couldn’t tally the hits on Sam’s skin, the bruises, the scars, then that meant they went too deep.

            He poured out his fury into the punching bag that Thursday morning, unleashing cold emotion on threadbare patches, literally beating the stuffing clean out of the vinyl, and finally wrapping one arm around the bag and resting his forehead on it. He breathed in straw dust and exhaled anger; rocked back up onto the balls of his feet and started in again before he’d caught his breath.

            He didn’t emerge from his self-enforced banishment to the barn until the doors swung open, heralding Mary’s approach; she looked tired. Blunted shadows beneath her eyes, creases in her cheeks, around her mouth. Every day carved another notch into her, every day carved another notch into all of them.

            Dean didn’t understand how something so temporary had left such an exhaustive scar on their lives.

            “Hey,” He puffed, abandoning the bag and meeting her at the stepladder that reached down to the depressed floor. “What’s up?”

            “Your father’s looking for you.” Mary rubbed a sort of dampness from his face with her thumb, blood or sweat or mud, Dean wasn’t sure. Mary was always cleaning him up, fingers on his cheeks, trying to brush away something they both knew was deeper and more powerful than the smudge of his skin.

            “Thanks.” Dean mopped the back of his neck with his hoodie, following her out; the rattle from the rafters mocked him until he shut the door on it.

            He didn’t bother asking Mary why she was awake this early; they all slept in snatches nowadays. If it wasn’t bad dreams that laid them down in fits and woke them before sunrise, then it was worry; if it wasn’t worry, it was restlessness; if it wasn’t restlessness, it was anger so excruciatingly smoldering, it was irrepressible, forcing them from their beds. And around and around the cycle went.

            John was leaning against the Impala when they circled around the side of the house. His face was painted with the last of the shadows before dawn, his mouth hard-set.

            “What’s up?” Dean stopped beside him, watching as Mary trudged back to the house. It looked like something was bearing down on her, a weight stripping her of vitality.

            “Impala’s out of oil, she’s almost running dry. Thought I’d make a run up to the store, see if you wanted to come with.”

            “Uh, yeah, sure. I guess.” Dean tossed his hoodie into the backseat. “We need anything else?”

            “We’re running low on food, but let me talk to your mother before we spend any more money.”

            Which meant they were creeping toward the red zone.

            John left the radio on, driving to the mini-mart; the stations had gone back to running primarily League fights, the monotone coverage creeping out of the boxy speakers. The announcer for the Leagues, whoever he was, had lost interest years ago.

            “This is crap,” Dean reached over to flick it off, and stopped.

            “—Lilith’s newest prize fighter, really shaping up to make a name for himself here in the Leagues. Keeping with the unlikely tradition of giving names to their monsters, the demonic underground is calling this one _Jake_. He’s six feet and two-hundred pounds of solid muscle and…I don’t believe it, he just tossed that other fighter like it was nothing, _holy—_ ”

            John clicked the dial, plunging them into abrupt silence.

            Dean watched him. John watched the road.

            Then, suddenly, he smacked the steering wheel with his open palm. “Where the hell is Sam?”

            Dean didn’t have an answer, just half-formed notions that didn’t, really, make him feel any better than the silence did. So he chewed the inside of his cheek, and said nothing.

            The mini-mart was deserted, like always, devoid of any signs of life apart from Dean and John, and the same bored-looking cashier. Dean wondered if the man was sprouting like a mushroom behind the register, a permanent cancerous growth on his red plastic chair.

            Dean wandered the aisles while John paid, mostly because there was a cowardly part of him that didn’t want to know how much the oil cost, thrusting them deeper into the hole. He was perusing a shelf full of tuna, wondering if they were actually telling the truth when they printed _no dolphins harmed_ on the label, when John called him back.

            At least the rain had broken, finally, making way for humid heat that hugged itself around them on their way out. John propped the Impala’s hood while Dean perched on a switched-off icebox beside the building.

            With his hands braced on the hood over his head, John swung a look over his shoulder. “Dean, you wanna help me?”

            Dean blinked. “You serious?” He slid off the icebox. “Dude, you never let me help out with this baby.”

            John’s expression was faintly caustic. “You rebuilt her from the ground up, Dean. I think you’ve earned it.” He leaned back. “You ever change the oil in a car before?”

            “Yeah, I’ve done my pickup a couple times.”

            “Same basic principle. Oil well’s just in a different place.” John gestured, indicating the cap. “Pretty much speaks for itself. So, fill ’er up.”

 He tossed the bottle and Dean caught it, smirking. “Yes, sir,”

He got to work, trying not to feel pressured by John looking over his shoulder; an oil change was about the easiest thing he’d done on this car, and it felt good, fixing something. Making it run better, flow smoother; helping all the gears grind together like butter, instead of biting off of one another.

When he stepped back, hands sleeked with smudges of black, John gave the oil a cursory once-over and a nod. “Looks good.” He banged the hood shut and nodded to the bottle in Dean’s hands. “Toss that out, and we’ll head for home.”

Back to the house, back to everything hanging over their heads. Dean’s semblance of a good mood evaporated. “Yeah.”

He dropped the empty oil bottle into the trash can on the far corner of the mini-mart, wiping his hands on his jeans and sniffing shortly, staring across the dusty road into the wide, sloped field on the other side, ringed with broken barbed wire. The hairs on his neck were standing at attention again, almost of their own accord; coldness bathed the back of his throat.

The _watched_ feeling was back.

He was turning back toward the Impala, suddenly eager to hit the road, when a weak, wet cough sounded off from nearby.

Dean froze, instinct immediately taking the helm. He swept the parking lot first, with no sign of anyone but John in close proximity; through the glass front wall of the mini-mart, he could see the cashier, asleep with his head tipped back. Not coughing; snoring, audibly.

He heard the sound again, capped by a sloppy, rattling breath.

Every muscle corded with tension, Dean moved around the corner.

The dumpster behind the mini-mart was overflowing, letting off a rotten stench of days-old, moldering food and humming with the buzz of flies. Blanketing his nose and mouth with his arm, Dean was about to turn back when one of the black trash bags, tossed carelessly on the ground, shifted.

Not the trash bag, Dean realized after a second; something underneath it.

A few feathery strands of copper-red spilled across the ground, and Dean was struck by a sudden jolt of recognition.

“ _Dad_!” He crossed to the dumpster yelling over his shoulder, stripping the bag off and crouching next to the body of Maggie Robertson.

The siren lay prone in a pool of her own blood; more blood, soaking her nightshirt, and running down her legs, branching across her thighs. Dean thumbed it off of her cheek, trying to rouse her.

            “Hey, hey. You with me, sweetheart?”

            She stirred, slightly, at his touch and at his voice, long lashes lifting to reveal murky, unfocused eyes. She started to move, testing her limbs, and whimpered. Dean cupped a hand over her shoulder, rolling her gently, sliding one arm beneath her head to hold it clear of the ground.

            “Easy, easy, just take it easy.” His eyes traveled down the saturated front of her white knee-length dress, vividly scoured with scarlet. “Oh, _no_.”

            “Dean?” John’s voice came from the corner; he sounded at a loss, dumbstruck by the sight before him.

            “Go grab my hoodie, or something! She’s gonna bleed out!” Dean said, desperately. He heard John’s footsteps retreating, and he gripped Maggie’s chin gently.

            “Maggie. Look—hey, look at me. What happened?”

            Her eyes rounded, not focusing; one was clouded milky white, the other bracketed with lines of blood. Her hairline was soaked as red as her dress.

            “Hu—hun—” Her voice burbled, choked.

            “What, _Hunters_?” She tipped her head in a feeble nod. “You got caught by Hunters? There are _Hunters_ out here?”

            She sniffled, a tear sliding from the corner of her good eye, pooling against Dean’s thumb. Blood dripped from her nostril. “Caugh-caught me.”

            “Y’think?” Dean chuckled weakly, no force behind the sound. “C’mon, hang in there, girl. We’ll patch you up.”

            “Dean?” Her voice lilted the word into a question. “Am I a monster?”

            Dean searched her eyes, a moon-white globe and muddy greenish-gold. “Nah. I don’t think so.” He dragged his fingers gently through her hair. “I think you’re one of the good ones.”

            He’d barely finished speaking when her body arched in his arms, a violent, guttural cough strangling her. Dean tightened his arms around her shoulders. “Maggie! No, no, no, don’t you die on me. You got out, girl, I’m not gonna let you drop the curtain on this one. Stay with me!”

            Her hand circled his wrist, fingers tracing a sporadic pattern; then slipping, sliding. Her hand splashed in the puddle of her blood, and she went still.

            For the second time that year, Dean was left holding a monster’s lifeless body in his arms. Only this time, it hadn’t been peaceful, hadn’t been as quick or as final as hot chocolate on the stairs. Bloody, and sad.

            He knew John was behind him, didn’t acknowledge him. Stared at Maggie’s face, the most attractive face he’d ever seen; a siren, but a good person. A person who’d bought him Twinkies and helped set him on the right path with Sam.

            John crouched beside Dean, gently nudging Maggie’s eyelids down. “Who was she?”

            “Sort of a friend. I guess.” Dean said, huskily. “A siren.”

            John didn’t comment, though his gaze slid to Dean, traveled down, and then froze. His whole body locked tight. John reached over, snatching Dean’s arm, flipping it over and ignoring his protest of, “Hey, watch it!”

            John was staring at the bloody whorls on Dean’s skin, left by Maggie’s death throes. His brows jammed down over his dark eyes.

            “What?” Dean demanded, sharper than he’d intended.

            “These aren’t just smudges, Dean; these are letters.” John stared, for a few more seconds, and Dean stared with him, trying to make sense of the angle, of three gapped, jagged letters.

            And then it crashed over him: _GOR_

He met John’s eyes. “Gordon.” His voice made the name a curseword. “He knows we’re around, I’ll bet that’s how he found Maggie. Stumbled across her by accident while he was looking for us, and he put her down.”

            There was a heartbeat of stillness as their minds sewed the pieces together.

            And then, simultaneously, with fear:

            “Mom.”

            “ _Mary_.”

 

-X-

 

            There was only one thing, really, more annoying than being interrupted in the process of rearranging the living room.

            And that was being interrupted in the process of rearranging the living room by a man wielding a loaded, safety-off pistol, and backed by four very large, very angry-looking, bloodstained henchmen.

            It was called nesting; Mary knew the term from her days of studying pregnant women. When a new baby was on the way, women would tear apart and rebuild an entire house in the nesting process, trying to get every detail in order for their little one. Why the fever of nesting had taken _her_ , of all people, Mary wasn’t sure; reproduction was physically impossible for her, with the surgery she’d had after Dean was born. Her body had no reason at all to release any hormone that would stimulate that mindset.

            But she’d been rearranging the kitchen, living room and both bathrooms all week, back and forth, and if nothing else she had a feeling it was the distraction of mobile hands that kept her mind off of things. Her Jane Siberry cassette, playing loops on the stereo, added to the numbing sensation of an occupied mind. Until suddenly the door was being kicked open, violently, and she had a moment to remember that her shotgun, the one her father had given her for her fifteenth birthday, was still in the locked chest at the foot of her bed upstairs, before a massive sweaty hand seized her by the back and thrust her brutally against the wall.

            Hot, heavy weight pinned her there; a man, she could smell him, she could feel him on every inch of her as he looped her arms behind her back.

            “It’s all right, sweetheart.” His voice was dusky and warm, would’ve been pleasant if he wasn’t pinning her like that, the cold muzzle of a gun snuffling at her hairline. “If you cooperate, your boys won’t have to come home to your brains painted all over the ceiling. _If_ you cooperate.”

            Mary’s mind fell back to her training, immediately docile, melding herself into the situation. “I’m cooperating.”

            “Good girl.” The man tugged her hair away from her temple, then spun her around and thrust her toward one of his associates. “Tie her up.”

            The gun angled steady toward her forehead quelled Mary’s thoughts of breaking free; she was good, well-trained, but not fast enough to dodge a bullet. And she wasn’t ignorant of her disadvantages, either; four full-grown men unbalanced her chances of escape astronomically.

            She acquiesced to being tied, flexing her wrists outward slightly in the process, her only protest a slight, soft grunt of pain as she was shoved into a chair brought in from the kitchen. The man with the gun pushed the armchair out from where she’d moved it beside the fireplace, and he dropped down on it, facing her with the weapon hanging loose between his knees. And he studied her.

            There was something predatorily nonthreatening about him; dark skin, large eyes, a firm yet gentle mouth. He had the look of a man who was used to coming out on top, used to getting his way; so used to it, in fact, that he hardly questioned the outcome of any plan he orchestrated.

            They studied one another, and then the man sat back. “Mary Winchester. I’ve gotta say, it really is an honor. I used to hear stories about you and your dad. Helluva a Hunter, Campbell. Sorry to hear he passed.”

            Mary’s ribs crackled with the lightning of memory, the kneejerk reaction to the reminder of her father’s premature demise. “You obviously know me, but it’s not mutual. I haven’t had the pleasure.”

            “I know that. I made sure you wouldn’t.” He crossed his legs casually, running his thumb gently along the barrel of the gun. “But let’s talk about that when your husband and son come home, all right? _Any minute now_.”

            It clicked, then, for Mary: how that predator’s carry and the stillness of him, like a dog scenting the wind, had seemed familiar. This man before her, and all the others, had an air of repose that was achingly identifiable now that she really thought about it.

They were Handlers.

“If you hurt my family, I swear I’ll—”

            “You’ll what? _Bitch_.” The man clicked the word off, his colleagues laughing. “You’re a Handler’s housewife. Johnny’s little whore. Nothing more.” He leaned forward again. “And when he gets here, I have a few debts to collect on.”

            She recognized him, then, if by nothing else than by his seedy disposition and the dip of his tone. “You must be Gordon.”

            He sat back with a flattered smile. “Gordon Walker, yes, ma’am. These are my associates: Lasseter, Danny, Courage, and Roy.” He gestured to each man in turn: tall and skinny, medium-build with light hair, barrel-chested redhead, and the last, a man who walked with a funny limp in his step. “We all need to have a word with your husband.”

            A word, Mary knew, that would be spoken at gunpoint; a sentence that would no doubt be quoted by squeeze of a trigger. The Scriptures read that the love of money was the root of all evil; but Mary thought maybe there was something missing in there, about how a war fought in the margin lines of history could turn meek men into murderers.

            There was a squeal of tires and brakes, the sound of the Impala slingshotting into the yard, and Mary’s head snapped up. Gordon looked, too, stretching gamely to his feet.

            “Showtime, gentlemen.”

            Roy tangled a hand into Mary’s hair, holding her in place with a promise of pain. Not that she couldn’t put him down with one well-aimed kick to his gimp knee, Mary thought, an elbow to the throat and a punch to shatter his nose. But Gordon had a gun, and his focus was still halfway on her, so she’d have to wait, biding her time, letting things play out until the opportune moment.

            Roy drew a knife with a backbite of serrated teeth on its black edge, and he placed it to her throat. “Not a sound, there, sugar.”

            _Sugar and spice_ , Mary amended. And she knew which of the two Roy would be receiving, soon.

            Boots clomped up the porch steps, and the wild urge to scream, her own life be damned, to tell John and Dean not to come inside, was rendered pointless by the screen ripping open, the inner door punched almost off its hinges.

            “ _Mary_!”

            There was a cannon blast of gunfire, the room catching the sound and flinging it back at all of them. The heady scent of acrid smoke and gunpowder filled the room, and the sensation of all feeling flushed straight from Mary’s body as John hit the floor on his knees, one hand guarding his side. Blood spewed between his fingers.

            She ripped, tried to twist away, only to feel the knife pricking threads of her skin apart at the arch of her windpipe. In seconds Dean was in the room, stepping between John—the front of shirt already soaked scarlet—and the gun.

            Gordon flipped his wrist, bashing the butt of the firearm into Dean’s temple, and  Dean almost toppled, almost went down all the way, catching himself with a hand on the back of the couch that slanted across the room. Before he could recover, Danny and Courage had him by his arms, and Lasseter pummeled him, once, twice, three times in the gut, every blow ringing like another gunshot, until Dean was slumped on his knees between them.

            There was no point, Mary knew, in demanding that Gordon let them go; she’d only be betraying herself, wasting her breath. She settled, if not able to stop the panic at watching John’s blood soak the carpet, then at least enough to convince Roy to loosen his hold, marginally. All the while she flexed her wrists against the bonds.

            “Johnny Winchester.” Gordon moved to kneel in front of him, wrenching John’s head back by a handful of hair. There was a thin sliver of blood at the corner of John’s mouth. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

            “Yeah, nine months. Where the hell were you?” Dean’s belligerent tone, begging a fight, was classic protective Dean: take the focus off the injured, bring it onto himself. Defend the weakest link, the person he cared about.

            Lasseter socked him again, and Dean doubled over, spat on the man’s shoes, then hauled his head back up.

            “I’ve been around. Keeping an eye on things.” Gordon murmured, shoving John’s head down and straightening. “Watching that little monster of yours make headlines. It’s too bad the demons got him back, he was shaping up to be a real winner.”

            Dean’s face went icy cold. “How’d you—?”

            “Because he’s working with them.” John’s voice was strung tight with pain.

            “Correction. I _was_ working with them.” Gordon’s tone didn’t change, but a brittleness entered his eyes, something wounded and dangerous. “Lilith comes to me a while back. Tells me to keep an eye on all of you after some Snatcher nest near here bombed out. Said if I did this one little thing for her, held out on the fights, she’d make sure I was in the Leagues in no time.”

            “And she lied. What a surprise.” Dean scoffed.

            The next hit split his cheek. Mary’s right hand came loose from the bonds.

            “Worse than lied. The bitch never even _paid_ me.” Gordon brushed his chin off on the back of his hand. “So now I’m backed up against the wall with no fights in my queue, and next to no money. And the only way I’m gonna make that right,” He shuffled toward Dean, kneeling on his level this time. “Is by taking it out of your asses. Like I should’ve done back in Junction City.”

            He ripped the dogtags from around Dean’s neck, a sharp snap of the cord breaking, and Dean shoved against the hold of his captors.

            “You son of a bitch—!”

            “Enough.” Gordon rested the muzzle of the gun between Dean’s eyes. “Lilith asked me to wait, said I had to hold off on killing you until she said so.” He chuckled, a damp, unfeeling sound. “Now I see why she did it. You were just incubating her little nest egg. So she could cut ties with me and go back into her hole.”

            Dean’s eyes were squared on the dogtags, so intent he could’ve burned holes through paper. Mary’s left wrist, scuffing raw, slipped free; her gaze moved from Dean to John and back again, fearful for both. John was turning paler by the second, not even trying to fight back.

            Gordon cocked the hammer of the gun. “Didn’t I say, if I ever saw you on the circuit again, I’d kill you myself?”

            “Gordon! _No_!”

            Every eye in the room turned to John. Suddenly on his feet; bent double, still clasping the gunshot wound in his side, blood trickling steadily from the corner of his mouth. But on his feet.

            “You take me instead.” He said. “Take the car, take the money, and kill me. But let my family go.”

            “ _Dad_ —!”

            “Dean, that’s enough!”

            Gordon slid the gun down to Dean’s chin, thumbed the trigger, then shoved Dean’s head sideways with the muzzle and got to his feet, moving back toward John.

            “I like the way you think, Johnny. Save your whore, save your little bastard son. That’s noble.”

            Watching John sway on his feet, his face going from healthy and ruddy to ashen-white, Mary’s chest heaved shut, then ruptured.

This was _her_ John, _her_ John who had gotten down on his knees and wrestled with Dean even when he was tired to the bone, _her_ John who had made her only home his arms; _her_ John, in every beat of the blood dripping sleek through his fingers, in the passion of his eyes, all _hers_. And _her_ John, and _her_ Dean, were about to be made into sacrifices before the god that ruled so many men’s hearts: the god of war. Greed, and self-prospering. About to steal all that was hers.

And there was a rule that everyone ought to know.

The surest suicide was to step between Mary Winchester and her family.

She ducked low, and spun, knocking Roy’s gimp leg out from under him, kneeing him between the legs and scraping the knife from his grasp. She was up the stairs in seconds, the heavy pound of Lasseter’s footsteps drumming after her at Gordon’s bellowed command.

Adrenaline poured down the back of her throat, rich like fire and rough like sand. Mary careened into her bedroom and slammed the door shut, going to the chest with the knife in hand. She dug the point into the golden lock on the box, needling it around as Lasseter hit the door, rebounded, came at it again, rebounded again.

The catch popped open at the same time the door splintered at its creases and swung inward. Mary was clicking the safety off as she turned.

The shotgun blast tore pint-sized holes in Lasseter’s chest, blowing him back out into the hallway. Mary snapped the shotgun open, loaded two more shells and was down the stairs in less than a minute.

The first thing to find her, the first thing she found, was John’s gaze; so full of relief it seemed to stretch out toward her. A clear, vivid _I thought you were dead_ , and, _Thank God you’re not_.

Mary aimed the shotgun at Gordon’s back. “You, get out of my house. Get away from my family.”

Gordon slowly, slowly let the handgun fall to swing around his finger. “Let’s all stay calm about this.”

“ _You shot my husband_.” Mary braced the butt of the shotgun to her shoulder, finger gracing the trigger. “The rational thing to do would be to castrate you with buckshot. But I’m willing to let it slide.” _Only just_. “Drop your gun, take your men, and go.”

“The car—” Roy began; he was propped against the wall, clutching his knee where she’d struck him.

“You’ll be lucky to leave with your lives.” Mary slid closer to Gordon, not within his reach, not near enough for him to grab the gun. “You have ten seconds. Let Dean go, drop the gun, and get out.”

The firearm fell with a clatter; Gordon turning to face her. He jerked his chin and that was signal enough; the men went, one by one, dropping Dean’s arms, sidling out with Gordon.

Roy was the last to go, and that was his greatest disadvantage.

Dean scrambled, half-bent, scooping up the gun, squeezing off two simultaneous rounds. Mary didn’t flinch, but she turned her head as blood coated the wall, Roy slumping, his head a mangled mesh of brainmatter and blood.

Dean spat under his breath, “That was for Chelsea, you sick son of a bitch.”

And then Gordon was gone, taking the opportunity of Mary’s slackened attention to make his escape. She followed him to the doorway, keeping her sights trained on him as he took the wheel of a gray-and-white piebald truck and gunned it for the road, his two remaining associates in the bed.

Only then did Mary let the double-wide barrel find the floor, the strength leaving her arms. It had been years since she’d killed, and then, never a human. Though her logical brain knew that she’d done the right thing, defending herself, it left an intolerable sense of hollowness creeping across her skin.

The gun smacked the floor behind her for the second time, and the sound jolted Mary, reminded her that the danger hadn’t left entirely.

“Dad! Hey, whoa, steady.” Dean stabilized John, one arm around his back, one hand on his chest, sinking them both down onto the floor. John was shaking, visibly shaking, an earthquake, a bomb-blast beneath his skin. Mary dropped beside them, fully aware, and not caring, that she was swimming in bits of brain and Roy’s blood.

“Sit back. John, let me see.” Mary levered him back against the side of the couch, pulling his hand away from his side. When he twisted his fingers through hers, so tightly it was hard to tell, even for her, where his hand ended and hers began, she didn’t fight it.

The whole front of his blue shirt was purpled with blood.

“We need to stop this bleeding.” Mary said, triage skills resurfacing. “There’s a first aid kit upstairs, Dean. Bandages, sutures, disinfectant. We need to plug up the hole.” When there was no response, Mary looked to him, quickly. “Dean!”

He blinked, shaking his head. “What?”

“He’s going to bleed out. I need you to focus. Help me, help _him_.” Dean nodded, seeming to rope himself into the situation. “First aid kit, upstairs. Go, sweetheart.”

Dean jumped to his feet and ran, slipping slightly in the wetness on the floor.

“Mary—” John gritted her name out, leaning his head back, every muscle tight, tendons popping with agony.

She shifted closer, wrapping one arm around to weave her fingers in his hair, pulling his face down to the safe place where her shoulder met her neck; their hands fell slack, pinned between their bodies. She could feel him breathing against her.

“How did you know he was here?” She murmured.

“Bastard killed some friend of Dean’s,” John muttered. “She tipped us off.”

Mary pressed a kiss to his temple. “My hero.” Light, teasing; fear was making her reckless, bringing her heart onto her sleeve.

“Thought I was gonna lose you.” John’s voice was gravelly, tinged with a kind of quiet panic Mary might not’ve understood; except that he was still in danger of bleeding to death. So maybe, she understood perfectly.

“We’ve already lost enough.”

So this time, just in case, she pressed her lips to his.

And when Dean returned, first aid kit in hand—with the taste of John’s salty blood in her mouth and the shock in his eyes to keep him focused, to keep him from slipping away—she went to work digging the bullet out, and bandaging him.

 

           

 


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty: House of Secrets and Dreams

 

            Dean walked in kicking grass from his shoes, toeing the door shut behind him.

            “Impala’s in the shed. I don’t think Gordon’s gonna come back for the truck, s’not really worth his time.”

            Down on her hands and knees, Mary looked up from the bucket of soapy water that she’d been using to clean the blood from the floor. “What about Gordon’s men?”

            “Burned the bodies. I buried, uh—I buried Maggie.”

            That explained the fine layer of dust on his clothes. Mary nodded and looked down again; caught sight of the grayish spongy flecks of brain floating in the water and almost choked. She’d never wanted it to go this far; never wanted so much pain and regret to creep into their lives. A life on her hands, Roy’s on Dean’s. She didn’t know who Chelsea was, but she knew from watching Dean carrying the body around the back of the house who Maggie was. A beautiful girl; a redhead. A monster. The blood on her body telling a story of torture, unspeakable kinds.

            And Dean had buried her. He’d killed Roy.

            More blood that plain, warm water and a washrag could never wipe away.

            She’d never wanted this life for her son, for her husband, for herself; for Sam. More than anything, she wished New York, despite all its pitfalls, could’ve been a saving grace; but a legacy of slums and shame had followed them even that far, drawing Dean into the life that had almost ruined his father.

            _John_.

            She was startled when Dean’s hand closed over hers. Mary looked up, into his face as he knelt beside her; young, compassionate, both wise and innocent in leaps and bounds across the mature planes of his face. Shaded with pain, shadowed with stubble, his green eyes feathered at the corners with exhaustion. Her Dean, her baby boy, her first and only child. He’d killed a man in front of her today, and she’d killed, likewise, to save him. Did that make John, the one she’d tried to hate for so long, the only one with clean hands left in their family?

            “I got it, mom.” Dean’s voice was soft, the faintest flavor of his Kansas accent sliding through, rough in patches. “How ’bout you check on dad?”

            Mary knew better than to protest, knew better simply because she wasn’t in the habit of lying to herself. If her fingers brushed one more scrap of brainmatter, she’d be cleaning up her own vomit next.

            She wiped her nose on her wrist with a nod, and stood. Dean stayed down, picked up the rag.

            “Hey,” He said. “It’s gonna be fine, mom. We’re gonna get through this.”

            Mary was rooted to the spot, staring at him; not altogether shocked, but deeply shaken, that he was comforting her. Dean, who’d lost Sam, a person like a brother and a friend, someone to protect and to rely on, all rolled into one; Dean, who was staring down the barrel of the same gun as the rest of them; Dean, who’d killed, who’d watched a friend die in his arms, and whoever Chelsea was, he’d lost her, too; Dean, who’d seen his father bleeding on the carpet, had helped Mary dig the bullet from between John’s ribs while John had held as still as possible, succumbing only at the very end to shifting with pain. All of this, Dean had seen, taken in, borne with him, and still _he_ was reassuring _her_.

            Mary rested a hand on his head, gave his hair a gentle tug; her boy, the protector. Who’d taken her hands in his when he was twelve and told her that it would be okay, he’d watch out for her like dad told him to. Even after John had deserted him, Dean had stayed strong; was strong, now.

            “I love you, sweetheart.” Mary whispered.

            The smile Dean offered her was childlike. “Love you, too, mom.”

            Mary was turning away when she noticed Dean grabbing for the dogtags that weren’t there; his birthday presents from John and Sam, and Gordon had taken them. A brief, brilliant heat of anger and sadness seemed to ignite Dean’s eyes, and then subsided as he took over her task of mopping the floor.

            Mary pulled herself step by step up the stairs, one hand on the railing. Despite John’s insistence, after she’d stitched his side, that he was just fine and could sleep off the bulk of the pain on the couch, she’d put her foot down. He was taking his old bed and that was that.

            She didn’t know how much of her actions today were induced by guilt, by the feeling that John had always been willing, ever since that first day in September, to put his life on the line for them, and she’d never cared to see. She’d been too busy trying to make this house exactly the way she remembered, trying to recapture the past, ignoring the fundamentals that had never changed.

            John was here. Dean was here. They’d had Sam, too. And it had taken losing that, losing almost everything at once, to shock her back to reality.

            She’d believed in John as a Handler, as she’d believed in him as a Hunter, all along; his abilities were undeniable. She was finally beginning to believe in him as a man again, as a person she cared for and depended on.

            As someone she loved.

            She let herself into the bedroom, daylight pouring strong through the windows. John was scrunched on his side, his head on his arm; as loose and relaxed as she’d ever seen him, awake or asleep, but that likely had to do with the bottle of strong painkillers she’d found in the first aid kit. Two pills had had him leaning on Dean like a deadweight as Dean had helped him up the stairs.

            Mary sat herself on the bed beside him, facing his turned back; when she laid a hand on his uninjured side, John didn’t stir. Frowning, thinking that, maybe, he’d been lucky enough to succumb to the lag of the pills and sleep, Mary moved to stand.

            John shifted his arm suddenly, holding her hand in place. “Stay.”

            She stayed. “Is there anything I can get you?” No response. “How do you feel?”

            “I let you down, Mare.” John’s voice was low, wretched. “You and Dean. Sam, too, hell, even Bobby. I let down every person I ever had.”

            “What do you mean?” Mary asked, cautiously, the psychoanalytical lobe of her brain kicking into gear. Sometimes it did more harm than good to reassure a person outright; there could be key things, key examples of a person’s failure that needed to be dissected and monitored and either disproved, or dealt with.

            “I never shoulda let you two walk out.” John murmured. “And after you got out? I never shoulda called you back in.”

            “You and Sam would both be dead by now if you hadn’t called me that night.” Mary said, with frank honesty. “Sam would’ve wasted away from that infection and sooner or later, Gordon would’ve found you anyway. You shouldn’t have to do this alone, John. No one should.”

She felt a shudder pass along John’s body. “Sam might as well be dead anyway, Mary. You and I both know it. Dean knows it, too, deep down. It’s just taking us all a while to admit it.”

            Mary noticed he didn’t comment on his own near-death experiences; the pain pills, the bullet between the ribs, seemed to have made him honest, put him in touch with his past and present. Left him skinned raw and shedding his defenses, the kind that would return with good sleep.

            She rubbed her knuckles over his ribs, feeling the deliberate bump of bones against bones. “I spent a long, long time blaming you for everything, John. For everything that went wrong in New York. For Dean’s attitude.” She shook her head slowly, heaved a sigh. “We could all lose our minds trying to think of who’s responsible for the things that happen to us. We could blame God, or the Devil, demons, each other.” She propped her chin on his shoulder. “I just want to find a way around to being a family again.”

            “Think we can?” John asked, and there was a gruffer, timeless reflection of Dean’s innocence in that question.

            “I think it’s worth every effort we put into it.”

            John’s head moved in what could have been a nod, and he relaxed more deeply into the bed. Mary stood up, slid her hand from his ribs, moved to retrieve her pillow and quilt when John added, quietly, “I want you to stay, Mary.” His dark eyes, unfocused with the medication, still somehow seemed able to plead with her.

            Mary lowered herself back to the bed, smoothed her pillow with one hand, then stretched out with her head on it and her arm tucked underneath. It was how she always slept; acutely conscious, now, of John’s nearness, for the first time in thirteen years as she lay steady. Just breathing.

            Presently, she felt his hand on her hip; and when she didn’t protest, deciding, in fact, that she welcomed it, John tugged her toward him. Mary accepted the invitation without preamble, sliding her back against his chest. John draped his arm over her waist, finding her hand against the mattress and folding it into his. His breath, warm and deep, stirred her hair.

            “I missed you,” He murmured.

            “Ditto.” She whispered, and he chuckled, one burst of hope. Mary scooted her foot back to rest on his knee, a remembered action from a decade and a half of sleeping together.

            It was the beginning, maybe, of change.

            So when she woke hours later to find it was dark in the room, and realizing that she’d turned somehow in John’s arms, asleep with her nose brushing his, her initial reaction wasn’t panic or annoyance, but a bones-deep sense of belonging.

            “Hey.” John murmured, his eyes twinkling just slightly in the darkness; she wondered if he’d ever slept at all, or just watched her.

            “Mmm.” She tucked her head under his chin looped her arm against his side, feeling his heartbeat under her arm.

            In the morning, maybe, she’d regret this.

            But not now.

 

-X-

 

            Dean slept with Roy’s pistol beside his bed, and Roy’s knife under his pillow, and it wasn’t enough to keep away bad dreams. Wasn’t enough to keep Gordon from rearing his head into Dean’s subconscious; dreams of Gordon killing John, killing Mary, killing Sam. Word trickled in through newspapers and snatches on the radio that the Duchess was back on the circuit, but she wasn’t winning. Gordon kept pulling her; cold feet. He’d lost his nerve. Without a demonic contract to fall back on, he had no guarantee his fighter could make it to the Leagues, and that made him a step beyond cautious, almost bordering cowardice. John seemed noncommittal on the subject when Dean broached it with him, and Dean didn’t push it.

            It was in his dreams that Dean saw Gordon join ranks with Lilith, flashing bloody stripes of power across every recess of any given nightmare.

            Like a kick to the heart, Gordon’s sudden and cruel reappearance in their lives put Dean into a frenzy of research again. Reviewing everything he’d found, anything about loopholes that he’d so much as spit at in the last two months. Nothing new leaped out at him; so he began to divide his time again, gradually, between research and his parents.

            But that was another shifting dynamic; because John’s injury and the way Mary had handled Gordon seemed to have united them in a way Dean hadn’t seen since they’d gone their separate ways. Since before New York. Even after they swapped again, John going back to the couch because he insisted he wasn’t going to rip his stitches and bleed out if he just gave up the bed, more often than not Dean walked in on them drinking coffee together in the mornings. Caught them holding hands, once or twice.

            When he brought it up, offhanded in passing, Mary referred to it as _rediscovering_. Dean wasn’t exactly sure what was there to be discovered in the first place, but he was happy for them, for the most part.

            He missed Sam like someone had kicked the breath from his lungs and ripped his skin off.

            It wasn’t like when he’d gone to Sioux Falls and they’d been separated and out of touch. He couldn’t flip on the radio and hear about Sam. It was a severance, a splitting of half from half. Sam had become the better half of who Dean was; someone who needed him. Someone he would’ve dragged out to the river and complained to for hours about things changing between his parents again: “ _Why the hell can’t they just be happy or be mad at each other, and stick with it?_ , and, _they’re like honeymooners and it’s freaking me out. I don’t wanna think about the two of them—_ ”

            And then Sam would’ve interrupted, “Oh, dude, _c’mon_! That’s gross!”, and Dean would’ve pursued it just to pester him, and eventually they both would’ve gotten around to accepting it.

            When things got to be too aggravating, too much under his skin at one time, Dean sat in a hurricane of papers and books and played his guitar. Played the songs until they hummed in his bones and his brainstem. Then it was back to the books until the silence gave out and he turned back to the music, to his faithful guitar, to put an end to the screaming notions that filtered their way in.

            _Sam’s dead_.

            He played Eagles songs, his fingers slipping.

            _Sam’s dead_.

            He read through blocks of text he never would’ve spent the time on before, absorbing every word until his eyes burned and he scrubbed them with the backs of his hands and finally had to give himself a break.

            _I screwed up, Sam’s dead, and he’s never coming back._

            Dean flattened a hand where his dogtags were supposed to be, and wondered if killing Gordon would be as easy as killing Roy had been.

            He hadn’t paused, hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t hesitated. Gordon had shot John, threatened Mary, killed Maggie; and Roy was riding with him. Roy, who had shattered Chelsea’s legs and left her to die with Bobby. Even now, looking back, he didn’t regret it. You didn’t have the luxury of moral dilemmas with gunpowder and blood soaking the air; and after the fact, there was a sense of justice to the whole affair, and a burning desire to track Gordon down and eliminate the threat.

            Which brought him back to Maggie Robertson and the question of what made a monster, a monster.

            The only real good that seemed to come out of the confrontation with Gordon was that the guard of ice around Dean’s heart felt like it was thawing. Problems of abandonment and the backs-and-forths of Handling didn’t seem like an unbridgeable gap when faced with the realization that either or both of them, Dean or John, could’ve been chewing lead from Gordon Walker’s gun. It put things into perspective, made it easier for Dean to acclimate to John even during mercurial mood-swings from either one of them, stressful situations as John’s chipped ribs mended; and they rode out the storm of knowing that the state of pause their lives had melted into, couldn’t last forever.

            And it didn’t. Through a tormented, stir-crazy June, they managed to hang tough, albeit with a sharp upswing in bad dreams and ill, unsettled feelings; in the beginning of July, everything tore apart again.

            “The money’s gone.”

            John pillowed his face in his hands as Dean stopped with a bite of cold canned beans halfway to his mouth, his fatigued brain struggling to catch up to that fact. His mouth opened, shut; he glanced at Mary, sitting in the other chair. She didn’t look surprised, but the shadows on her face had never been so absolute.

            Dean’s jaw continued to work soundlessly, finally spitting out a blunted, “What?”

            “We have fifteen dollars. That’s it.” John shook his head. “I never thought it would run out this fast.”

            “We were already in trouble after Amsterdam.” Mary added. “And there weren’t as many bets on Sam after that.”

            “What, they thought he couldn’t pull a fight?” Dean demanded with righteous indignation.

            “Betting’s only fun for people if there’s a chance they’ll recoup their losses.” John said. “Sam was almost a sure bet by the end of his run, and that can scare people away. Makes them more likely to hedge their bets, if they’re sure they’ll be paying up at the end of the day. Sam was too good to be true, and that didn’t sit right with people.”

            Dean hated this, he hated it; talking about Sam like he was a legacy, not a name. “Okay, so, what’s our next move?”

            John and Mary exchanged a glance that spoke of long hours spent awake talking this through, before they’d even let him see how bad it had gotten. There was a warning flush under his skin that reminded him all too well of life right before New York.

            “I don’t know, Deano.” John said, finally. “I’m racking my head and I can’t come up with anything.”

            “We’ll lose the water. Without electricity, even if we hunted our food, cooking it would be next to impossible.” Mary said. “Building fires in the middle of a dry spell is the last thing we want to do.”

            “So, you’re saying we’re up the creek.” Dean dropped the spoon into the can of beans and shoved his chair back from the table.

            “I don’t wanna say it, but that’s about how it looks from here.” John’s tone was bleak. “Even if we somehow manage to wait it out until we find ourselves a new monster, we know Gordon won’t stay away forever. He’ll be back, and he knows where we live. Not only that, he’s proven that he’ll take down anything in his way that he thinks deserves to be killed.”

            “So when we get Sam back, he’s still not gonna be safe.” Dean wasn’t sure if that was John’s point, but it was how the wires in his brain connected, starting an electric charge. “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” When they both looked at him, slightly askance, he said, “We could always call Bobby.”

            Frustration tautened John’s face. “I already told you, Dean. Bobby doesn’t have any monsters to sell. He’s as stranded as we are.”

            “Not to buy monsters, dad. I’m saying, I dunno, maybe we could stay with him.”

            “Stay with Bobby.” Mary echoed, her voice flat with disbelief.

            John, on the other hand, looked pensively curious. “What makes you think he’d even want us there?”

            “Maybe ’cause he’s lonely?” Dean suggested curtly. “I’m not saying he’d just welcome us with open arms. S’worth a shot, though.”

            John glanced at Mary, then stood. “All right, I’ll give him a call. But I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you; taking on an extra pair of hands for a few weeks is one thing. But if I know Bobby Singer, he won’t want a family moving in under his roof anytime soon.”

            “We’ll see.” Dean propped his feet up on John’s vacated chair, under the table, feeling Mary’s eyes on him. “What?”

            She leaned toward him, elbows on the table. “When was the last time you slept?”

            Dean crooked one eye shut, thinking. “What’s today?”

            Mary massaged her eyelids with her fingertips. “ _Dean_.”

            “Ah, sleep’s for the weak, anyway.” Dean crossed his arms and shrugged. “I’m fine, mom. I don’t scare easy and it’s not like a little insomnia’s gonna screw me up, right…?” He trailed off at the unconvinced and mildly annoyed glance she pinned to him.

            “Nightmares?”

            “Every couple days.” Dean shrugged. “It’s no big deal, ma.”

            “Sweetheart, you can’t let that keep you up around the clock. You’ll make yourself sick.” She laid a hand on his cheek, turning his head toward her and trapping his gaze into hers, reinforcing the gravity of what she was saying. “Your body needs time to rest, your brain needs just a few hours to restore itself.”

            “What’s the point? I just wake up feeling like something’s chasing me.”

            “Then maybe it would be better if you didn’t do so much research right before bed.” She brushed the back of her hand down his cheek.

            “I can’t quit on that stuff, I gotta find Sam.” Dean said defensively.

            “I didn’t say you should stop altogether, Dean, just stop reading before bed.” She studied his face, studied his eyes. “But is that what you really think? Do you really think you can save Sam, or are you going through the motions.”

            Dean’s throat constricted. “ _What_?”

            John reappeared in the doorway, snapping his phone shut, and Mary and Dean leaned apart. Corralling his whirlwind thoughts, Dean looked up. “What did he say?”

            John’s expression was mingled shock and relief. “The man didn’t even let me finish talking.”

            Mary’s shoulders slumped.

            John walked over and dropped a kiss on her, in full view of God and everyone.

            “Oh, c’mon, dad!” Dean protested.

            John shot him a smile so genuine that it erased any comments, half-teasing or not, that Dean had been formulating. “Pack everything you’ve got that matters. Bobby wants us on his doorstep by this time tomorrow.”

            Mary’s eyes widened. “He said _yes_?”

            “You wouldn’t believe it, but _he_ was trying to talk _me_ into it.” John chuckled. “Bobby Singer’s full of surprises. Said we never should’ve let it go this far, that we should’ve called him the day after Gordon showed his face.”

            “Better late than never, huh?” Dean kicked his chair out and got to his feet.

            “For how long?” Mary asked. “John? How long did you tell him we’d need?”

            “Just until we get back on our feet. And until we figure out what Gordon’s next move will be.” John pulled her to her feet, some of the color finally back in his face. He turned to Dean with a quiet but genuine, “Thanks for suggesting it, Deano. I woulda been too damned proud and stubborn to call the man on my own.”

            Dean shifted. “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

            Out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and it hit Dean with all the force of a white-hot supernova: he’d spent so many years wishing he could be back in this house. The place where he’d grown up. After ten months, he was leaving again; of his own volition, this time, it really had been his idea. But the heaviness took root in his chest anyway, making the stairs seem to stretch on forever.

            There were new memories, now, things to leave behind: Christmas huddled around the fireplace, generator Christmas tree and their holiday favorites played on the guitar; the first time he’d gone to the barn to let off steam, and Sam had followed him, locking them into a pattern of sparring that had stretched on for months.

            Branding with their backs against the wall; John Denver’s _Country Roads_. Late nights of insomnia with John in the kitchen, not speaking, just working. An apple-pie birthday, dogtags, bandages. Maggie, buried in their backyard, in places where the grass was torn and rutted by wrestling matches with Sam. Violence laced into good times.

            Dean folded his clothes into his duffle, unsurprised that he was leaving with a lighter load than he’d brought in. Between training sessions and loaning his clothes to Sam, only to have them destroyed during Pit fights, he was closing in on the need for at least a new pair of jeans. Once they could afford them; _if_ they ever could.

            He zipped the duffle shut, dropped his pillow on top, balanced his guitar case on that. Tugging his hoodie on, Dean made one last sweep of the room; nothing personal here, no trinkets, picture frames, artifacts from his childhood. Just glow-in-the-dark stars and memories, good and bad, hiding out in the corners.

            He crossed the hall and poked his head into the master bedroom, watching as Mary folded her quilt and stuffed it into her own bag. “Mom? Need any help?”

            “I’m fine here, sweetheart. Go get the truck started.”

            “On it. You riding with me or with dad?”

            Mary looked at him over her shoulder, sadness and some resignation coloring her eyes. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to ride with your father. In case he needs me to take the wheel for a few hours.”

            Dean lifted one hand in a careless shrug. “Yeah, no, it’s cool with me. Meet ya downstairs.”

            He tucked his pillow under his arm, took the guitar in one hand and the duffle in the other, and was heading for the top of the stairs when he passed the guest room.

            He hesitated; wondered if it was worth the trouble.

            Then decided it was.

            Aside from the books that hadn’t turned up much to their benefit anyway, the room was untouched from the time Sam had left. Dean pulled open the closet, stirring a fine film of dust and rustling the three shirts and two pairs of jeans that Mary had insisted they scrounge up during a Pit fight near Indiana. Sam’s only worldly possessions.

            Dean took his time, folding them up, the smell of Sam still trapped inside the clothes. He laid the shirts on top of his, inside the duffle bag, the jeans quickly following. Practicality be damned, since Sam was— _had been?_ —so impossibly long-limbed, Dean could never fit into his clothes. He wasn’t bringing them with to be _practical_.

            “Dean!” John’s voice echoed up the stairs.

            “Yeah, I’m coming.” Dean called back, his voice scratchy. He slung the duffle over his shoulder and headed for the stairs, stopping in the doorway for one last look before he shut the door behind him.

 

-X-

 

            It was his third time down this road since he’d stepped back into the flow of life after New York, but to Dean, this time, it felt different.

            They left the house behind in a haze of mid-afternoon humidity, driving north toward Sioux Falls, where things were just on the left side of chilly. And there was a sense of finality, of knowing that they wouldn’t be coming back; at least not for a while, and even then, who knew what state the house would be in? For all they knew, Gordon would come along and burn it to the ground in their absence.

            But they drove, anyway, left it all behind _anyway_ , because _house_ didn’t matter so much as _home_ , and _home_ was the three of them together. And Sam. But that part of _home_ was unattainable right now, something they had no choice but to let fall by the wayside in light of immediate, present dangers.

            Dean drove with the radio cranked on to a station that played all the good classics: Zeppelin, Journey, Foreigner, Kansas.

He’d spent a lukewarm spring day fixing the radio with Sam, just so they could kick their feet up on the dashboard and listen to backwoods, cult classic bands like these. Dean had grown up on this music; artists who made it as far as they could manage in seedy venues before they had to break up the band. Music, back in John’s day, had been more about talent than raw sound. Unlike the handful of crap artists making a name in the big cities these days, the music Dean had learned to play on his guitar had a sense of soul to it. The kind of thing you could belt at the tops of your lungs and the maxim of your voice, and feel it thrumming in your chest, and sometimes deeper.

 Sometimes, he found his fingers plucking the chords on the steering wheel, imagining what it would feel like to soak his thoughts into these songs. He wondered if John and Mary were listening to the same wave, because Journey’s _Faithfully_ , he decided, really _was_ written for them. And if he’d had Sam with him for the crawlingly long drive, he would’ve cranked up _Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’_ and belted it until he was hoarse; or until Sam got aggravated enough to smack him.

            Then again, if Sam had been with them, they might not have been making this drive at all.

            They stopped every few hours, for John to walk and stretched the achiness from his ribs. Dean perched on the tailgate of the truck, hands gripping the ramp, watching the wind chase itself through long Nebraska grass. They were straddling the border with Iowa on the far side, and Dean remembered hurling rocks into the river, and Sam mentioning how he wanted to see every state, even Hawaii. On this one road trip alone, they could’ve knocked a few off his list.

            The weight was back as they drove.

            They reached Sioux Falls at twilight, the first bright pinpoints of stars breaking through the high veil of bruise-blue overhead. The truck’s headlights cut across Chelsea’s grave as Dean pulled up, and suddenly all he wanted was to grab his belongings, get inside the house and collapse on Bobby’s sofa, just for an hour. He’d take the nightmares if he could just escape the knot of change that his life was snarling into, again.

            Bobby met them on the front porch, coffee in hand. He set the mug down and embraced Dean, the first to reach him, and Dean clapped a hand to Bobby’s back and shut his eyes. The smell of oil and aftershave enveloped him, welcoming him back.

            When Bobby pulled away, his eyes were bright in the glow of the lamp-pole beside his house. “S’good t’see you again, kid.”

            “Yeah, you too.” Dean cleared his throat. “Bobby, look, I’m sorry about…y’know that phone call, a couple months back.”

            “No harm done. You were hurtin’.”

            Dean didn’t deny it, glancing over his shoulder as John and Mary joined him, crowding all four of them onto the porch.

            “Can’t thank you enough for this, Bobby.” John extended a hand, and Bobby shook it warmly.

            “Ain’t nothin’ to be thanking me for. S’far as I’m concerned, you Winchesters are family. Family looks out for each other.”

            Dean didn’t meet Mary’s eyes when they settled on him, and after a moment she stepped past him, kissing Bobby on the cheek.

            “In any case, we’re grateful.” She said.

            Bobby cleared his throat, looking a shade mollified. “You all’d better come in.” He stepped aside, letting John and Mary though, then nodding Dean on ahead of him. Dean went, shooting a quick, grateful smile over his shoulder when Bobby laid a hand on his back, just for a second, conveying warmth and nearness.

            A light was on in Bobby’s study, shedding pumpkin-orange slats across the floor. Mary set her bag down in the doorway, her glassy, tired eyes reflecting. “I almost forgot what electricity was like.”

            “It’ll swirl your custard, all right.” Bobby’s expression was perfectly flat, his tone tinged with just the right amount of sympathy, but Dean had to stifle a chuckle regardless; he could see the amusement twinkling in Bobby’s eyes. “Cleared out the guest beds for ya. Who’s takin’ the couch?”

            “Yo.” Dean cocked two fingers.

            “I guess that’s settled, then.” The fact that John agreed without an ounce of protest—not to mention the way he guarded his ribs with one arm, and moved stiffly—spoke volumes for how sore he must’ve been.

            “I’m starving,” Dean chucked his duffle onto the couch, giving himself something to do other than feeling a yawning chasm of sadness for his uprooted family.

            “Coupla beers and some spaghetti in the fridge.” Bobby jerked a thumb toward the kitchen. “You know your way around to findin’ bowls and whatnot. Lemee get your folks settled and we’ll join ya.”

            “Thanks.” Dean waited until Bobby led John and Mary upstairs before he went to the kitchen; the light inside the fridge guttered close to death as he rooted inside for four chilly beers and a Tupperware bowl twice the size of his head and weighing twice as much, capped to the brim with thin spaghetti noodles swimming in sauce. The smell hit him the moment he took the lid off, a rich, basil-and-tomato aroma that made his mouth water. _Real_ food. He’d just started spooning it into bowls, lined up like soldiers on the counter, when a throat cleared behind him.

            “How’re _you_ feelin’, kid?”

            Dean didn’t look at Bobby, focusing his attention on ladling out spaghetti with one hand while balancing the bowl on the other. “Me? I’m awesome.”

            “Right. You’re just a can of functional.”

            Dean pointed the soppy wooden spoon at him. “I’m making dinner, aren’t I?”

            “You’re _reheatin’_ , it ain’t the same.”

            Dean allowed for that, spinning the spoon on its head in the spaghetti, swirling noodles up the handle. “I’m dealing.”

            “With what, exactly? Your parents ridin’ the love train outta the station all over again? Or Sam bein’ gone?”

            “Both?” Dean’s voice tipped the word into a slightly condescending question.

            Bobby joined him at the counter, lifting the first full bowl into the microwave and passing one of the beers to Dean. “I’ve seen all sorts in my time, Dean. I’ve seen blame-shifters, avoiders, men sunk so deep into their denial it’s like a damned vat of quicksand.”

            “Charming.” Dean snarked.

            “More to the point, I know your ass backwards and forwards, boy. I was there the day you were born, I’ve been hearin’ your squawkin’ ever since. So, you wanna come clean about what’s goin’ on in that scrambled sewerlid of yours?”

            Bobby’s kind of reasoning was blunt and sharp and hard to skate around; Dean had learned that well the few weeks he’d stayed with him at the beginning of the year. He popped the tab off his beer and took a long, frothy drink, giving his mind time to accommodate to the fact that he couldn’t dodge this.

            “It sucks out loud.” He said, finally. “But, like I said, I’m dealin’. Sorta have to, y’know? My family needs me.”

            “And while you’re playin’ Jesus to everyone in your own life, who’s lookin’ out for you?” Bobby asked, and Dean arched an eyebrow. “You ain’t a miracle-man, Dean. Somebody oughta be watchin’ your sorry backside before ya take a rope and jump off a cliff with it knotted on the wrong end.”

            “I don’t need a babysitter, Bobby.” Dean slid the beer across the counter and grabbed the wooden spoon again.

            Bobby latched onto his shoulder, pulling him around. “No, but you need a friend. Somebody who can help screw your fool head on straight when it gets knocked loose.”

            “For the last time, Bobby, I’m fine, all right?” Dean shrugged him off. “I got my share of problems but I’m _dealing_. If I have to say it one more time, I’m gonna start knocking heads together. _I am okay_. Okay?”

            Bobby studied him, with slow, steady wisdom for a long moment, before he receded, leaning against the counter. “Okay.”

            “ _Thank you_.” Dean bit the words off, slopping spaghetti into the last bowl and pushing it toward Bobby; after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, guilt started to seep its way under his skin, bringing on regret for his short temper.

 Dean braced his hands on the edge of the counter and sighed.

“Look. Sorry for taking your head off. Just….this whole damn thing is out of control right now. I just wanna get Sam back and fix things.”

“Get Sam _back_?” Bobby echoed, and his inflection set Dean on edge.

“I already told you, I’m not just gonna leave him with Lilith. I gotta get that kid outta there and back where he belongs.”

Very slowly, almost carefully, Bobby folded his arms, his gaze riveted on Dean’s face. “Nobody _told_ you, did they?”

Dean tried to smirk, felt it slip almost immediately. “Told me _what_?”

“Dean.” Bobby’s tone erased any trace of humor, his brows settling grimly, his breath stirring the coarse fibers of his beard. “Lilith came out with a statement on the radio a piece after you called me, back in May. Said Sam was dead and no monster was even close to the Leagues, so everyone oughta just get back to their business and stop spreadin’ rumors.”

The warmth sucked from the room like marrow grinding out of bones. Dean’s left hand tightened on the hidden underneath of the counter. “ _What_?”

“I figgered that’s why you never called me back. Thought you’d be dealin’ with things on your own terms.” Bobby watched him, still, closely. “Sam’s dead, Dean. Been dead for goin’ on two months, now.”

 

-X-

 

The sounds of something shattering under their feet broke John and Mary apart from where they’d been standing by the window, speaking in nothing more than silence about the unbalanced feeling of being launched into another person’s life. It would be good for Dean, John was sure of that; right now, it didn’t feel like much for the rest of them. His ribs ached and his head spun with dizziness and exhaustion.

And then the breaking.

With one look between them, he and Mary were moving down the stairs, greeted by the sound of rupturing glass and a hoarse cry of fury that eventually turned itself into, “ _NO_!”

“Settle down, Dean!” Bobby snapped, and John and Mary swung around the corner, Mary almost colliding with John’s shoulder as her socks slid on the hardwood floor.

Dean was facing away from them, toward the wall, his hands folded behind his head. His back heaved with labored breaths. Bobby, standing near the counter, had both hands on his hips like there’d been a lecture in the works. A broken bowl of spaghetti lay strewn on the floor, and the thin auburn shards of a beer bottle littered the wall and the tabletop.

“Dean.” John said, and the word was authority, it was a command.

Slowly, Dean turned to face him, hands gripping his hair, the unmistakable shine of tears in his eyes that stopped John cold. Dean let his hands fall, staring at John but seeming to see through him.

“What happened?” Mary demanded.

“Sam’s dead.” Bobby said, quietly. “I thought you all knew.”

“Quit saying that.” Dean mumbled. “He’s not dead.”

The compassion in Bobby’s eyes was almost enough to be palpable. “Dean…”

“Don’t _say it_!” Dean roared. “No! He’s not dead, he _can’t_ be!”

“Dean, that’s enough.” John inserted, firmly, and Dean pinned a powerful, melting glare on him.

Sam the invincible; Sam was _different_. All of these things that John knew Dean had believed, and now they were being stripped away. And some part of himself was resigned, not surprised. Resigned, because what else had they expected?

He looked to Bobby instead. “How?”

“Lilith put out a broadcast on it a coupla months back. S’why they’re not coverin’ Pit fights anymore. Everyone between here and anywhere knows Sam ain’t a Winchester no more.”

“Don’t you—” Dean began, venomously.

“I said, that’s _enough_.” John cut him off.

“Then all that’s left is Lilith.” Mary said, quietly. “The Queen Bitch.”

Bobby looked taken aback by her words. “If you’re lookin’ to pull some righteous revenge maneuver—”

“Bobby, the Colt can kill a demon.” John massaged his throbbing ribs with the heel of his hand. “Which means we can stop Lilith. We can put an end to this.”

“We save Sam first.” Dean said, stubborn.

“You heard what Bobby said, sweetheart, there’s nothing we can do.” Mary insisted, with that gentle tone that told John she was defusing a bomb.

            Dean brushed past them, toward the couch, and grabbed his duffle bag. “I don’t believe it. Demons are lying, Grade-A assholes. Sam’s still out there.”

            John turned to face him. “You can’t know that for sure.”

            “S’why I’m gonna find out.”

            “Dean, killing this demon comes first. Before _everything_.”

            Dean hitched his duffle onto his shoulder, green eyes glittering with determination.  “Sam’s my responsibility. I’m bringing him back.”

            He shoved past them on his way toward the door.

            “Where d’you think _you’re_ going?” Bobby called after him.

            “Sleeping in the car.”

            The door slammed, and the three of them exchanged loaded glances. Bobby removed his faithful cap and scratched the top of his head. “Sorry I ever opened that juicy can. I assumed Dean had heard the radio himself.”

            John felt the boiling aftermath of his son’s anger, and shook his head resignedly. “It wouldn’t have changed anything if he had.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-One: The Reactor

 

            “That car never did you any harm.”

            Bobby’s greeting roused Dean from the constant repetitive motion of smashing and denting one of the lopsided vehicles on the far edge of the junkyard, separated from the house by a sea of other worthy targets. The lack of interference until now had made Dean feel blessedly, completely alone; he couldn’t help being faintly irritated at the reminder that there was something to life other than the self-appointed pastime of demolishing Bobby’s stock of scrap metal.

            He curled his hands tighter around the crowbar. “Beats the hell outta therapy.”

            “Your momma might disagree.”

            With a flat, humorless smile, Dean whirled the crowbar in one hand and butted the window of the car with the flat end, spraying a sea of glass onto the front seat.

            “Oh, yeah, you’re the picture of maturity.” Bobby said. “Keep bashin’ cars, you might actually work yourself around to bein’ cheerful again.”

            “Not likely.” Dean propped the crowbar over his shoulder and shaded his eyes with one arm. “What’s up?”

            “Came out to see how you were doin’.”

            “How’s it look like I’m doin’?”

            “Considerin’ how you’ve been mangling your way through my scraps, I’d say you’re about nine kinds of messed up for a hundred different reasons.”

            Bobby’s words flushed up everything—fights Lilith Gordon John Mary home loss Maggie Chelsea Sam Sam _Sam_ —and Dean whipped the crowbar sideways, busting a spiderweb of cracks onto the windshield.

            “You could say that.”

            “I am sayin’ it.” Bobby leaned against the car, strategically between Dean and his target; forcing him to focus, not on how badly he could damage the vehicle, but on the person he couldn’t hurt. “What’s on your mind, kid?”

            Dean barked a laugh. “What _isn’t_ on my mind, Bobby?” He circled around to the front bumper, raised the crowbar for another hit, then thought better of it. Tossing the crowbar skidding through the grass, he twisted around and hopped up on the hood, linking his hands loosely and resting his arms on his knees.

            “S’been a week,” Bobby reminded him. “And if I can’t find you out here ruinin’ what ain’t yours, you’re up in my attic growing mold spores with all the junk that don’t got a home. Either you’re associatin’, or you’re letting out some real bad crap on your own terms.”

            “Both, I guess.”

            “Uh-huh. Might be healthier to talk about it.”

            “Aw, Bobby, we’ve been over this. Sharing and caring isn’t my thing.”

            “Well, communing with the spores ain’t doin’ such a bang up job, either. At least once a day your momma asks me if a car fell on you. And don’t get me started on John, that man is more of a stir-crazy dingbat than you are.”

            “And that’s saying something?” Dean cocked a uniform smile, but it felt forced, going through the motions. Just like Mary had said.

            “You bet it is.” Bobby was angled half-toward him, one foot on the bumper, the other steadying him on the ground. “You findin’ anything in that nest of books you’ve made for yourself in the attic?”

            Dean watched him stonily. “Thought you didn’t know what I was doing up there.”

            “Said it was one or the other, and seems to me you’re working through all the crap.” When Dean didn’t confirm or deny, Bobby added, “You need a hand?”

            It struck Dean, again, why Bobby was one of his favorite people on planet earth; unassuming, tenderhearted and loyal to a fault.

            “Thanks, but I got it.” He reached up to thumb his dogtags but, like a phantom limb, found them missing, their absence unsettling him. “If there was anything to _get_ , anyway. I’d have that bitch packaged with a bow on its head.”

            “Are we talkin’ about whatever it is you’re researchin’ at all odd hours? Or are we talkin’ about Lilith?”

            “Both.”

            “Uh-huh.” Bobby nodded, slow and thoughtful. “And no luck on findin’ out what Sam was, or how to stop the demons?”

            The past-tense reference to Sam blacked out Dean’s veins, brought an angry flush to the back of his neck. “What Sam _is_. And no, I got bupkis on both. No demons recorded in anything other than religious books, no monsters that don’t act like monsters, or present like monsters, or quack like friggin’ monsters. Maybe Sam just ain’t a duck, Bobby.”

            “You’re mixin’ your metaphors.”

            Dean craned his head forward, daring Bobby to lecture him.

            He didn’t. “Maybe you can’ find a source on demons ’cause they ain’t really demons. Or they weren’t called that, back in their day.”

            “Well, where else am I gonna look? In Encyclopedia Weird under ‘All things Evil and Unnamed’?”

            “You tell me, idjit, this is _your_ scavenger hunt.”

            Dean scratched his forehead, staring into the sea of cars, splashes of rusty-reds and butter-yellows amidst neutral grays and blacks. “Y’know, finding Lilith’s not really the problem. She’s probably somewhere in Tennessee, I remember my dad telling me that’s her big city.”

            “So what’s keepin’ you _here_?”

            Dean tipped his head slightly when he shrugged. “Even if I try to get Sam back, I’ve got nothin’, and she knows it. She’ll keep coming at me with that damned contract and I’m up the creek. I gotta figure out a way to pry her fingernails out of Sam’s ass if I wanna get him back for good.”

            “S’probably a good thing you haven’t found an answer to that yet.” The unspoken implication hung heavy in the air.

            “He is _not dead_.” Dean bit the words off, hopping down from the car.

            “Dean—”

            Dean swung back around to face him, irate, frustrated. “Look, you and my parents can mourn Sam, and hug it out, and go through the Five Stages of grief and whatever else you wanna do. But I’m not gonna believe Sam is gone until I see his body with my own eyes, all right?”

            “Yeah, all right,” Bobby’s sharp tone implied that it was far from all right. “Just don’t kill yourself in the meantime. And for the love of Pete, quit tryin’ to make yourself Lilith’s Public Enemy Number One. Last thing we need is a demon taking out _more_ contracts over your family. Heaping mess of pumpkin-pie-eyed crazies that y’all are.”

            Dean froze in the motion of retrieving the crowbar, Bobby’s words striking him like a left hook. His mind sorting, suddenly, jumbled pieces fitting together.

            He glanced over his shoulder. “Say that again.”

            “What? _Pumpkin-pie-eyed crazies_?”

            “No-no-no, before that.” Dean straightened. “What did you mean about Lilith taking out contracts on our family?”

            Bobby eyed him crookedly. “You forget about _Gordon Walker_? She hired that son of a bitch to keep tabs on you so she’d know when to take Sam.”

            “Using humans to do her legwork. Same angle she tried on my dad.” Dean’s brain slowly started to loop everything into a concrete image, like swiping his arm down foggy glass, seeing everything reflected back for what it was. “Humans she never _paid_.”

            “You goin’ somewhere with this, or should I leave you to discuss the situation with yourself?”

            Dean seized him by the shoulders. “Dude, Bobby! She never _paid_ these mooks, she just cut ’em loose! Use ’em and lose ’em. She always kept this crap under wraps.”

            “And—?”

            “D’you still have that HAM radio I used to play around with when I was a kid?”

            “Buried somewhere in the attic, I’m surprised you haven’t dug the damn thing out yet.” Bobby grabbed Dean’s face in one hand. “What is goin’ _on_ under your dunce cap, Dean?”

            “Can the HAM project on the radio wavelengths the announcers use?”

            “Boy, you are makin’ me gray!”

            “ _Can it project_ —?”

            “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya!” Bobby shook Dean by his jaw and let him go. “S’far as I know, should be able to pick up. I ain’t ever tried. What in God’s name are you _askin_ ’ me all this for, anyhow?”

            Dean flashed him a megawatt smile. “Oh, man, Bobby Singer, _you_ are a friggin’ genius. I could kiss you right now.” He paused, suddenly awkward. “’Cept that’d be weird.”

            “Ya think, _Romeo_?”

            Dean grabbed Bobby the cheeks, gave him a small shake, then ran for the house, vaulting cars, sliding across indented hoods, feeling the first brevity of emotion in weeks, like someone had lifted a massive weight off his chest. He took the porch steps two at a time and burst through the front door, almost colliding with John.

            “Whoa, slow down there, Deano.” John steadied him. “Where’s the fire?”

            “Move, there’s somethin’ I gotta take care of!” Dean elbowed past him and bounded through the study and up the stairs, ignoring Mary, curled on the couch, calling him back. He pulled down the ladder at the end of the second-story hallway and vaulted it into the attic.

            The space was musty, generally disused except for a niche in the corner surrounded by books, where Dean had learned to box himself in for hours of boring, uninterrupted research.

            This time was different; this time, driven by inspiration, Dean shoved towers of boxes aside, pawing his way through unmarked, waterproof tubs on his way to the back of the attic; finally coming across a waist-high, blue-frosted container full of ancient electronics; an old typewriter, he found as he ripped the top off and started digging, and, underneath that, a blocky HAM radio.

            Dean pulled it out gingerly and sat with his back to the wall, settling the heavy apparatus in his lap. “Yahtzee.” He swept his fingers over it, feeling for dents or breaks with hope waxing strong every second that his touch turned up nothing out of the ordinary or dysfunctional.

            “Dean?” John’s head poked over the top of the ladder. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

            “Saving Sam.” Dean muttered distractedly, tuning the knobs to make sure they worked. Satisfied—which translated, really, to a feeling like he was going to vomit—Dean pushed the radio toward the ladder. “Hang on, I’m comin’ down.”

            John’s head disappeared, and Dean followed him, stepping down a few notches on the ladder before he hauled the HAM radio to his chest and inched his way to solid carpet, more concerned with the device than his own wellbeing, if truth be told. All of his spur-of-the-moment plans were balanced on this.

            “What is that?” John demanded the second Dean’s feet hit the floor.

            “Radio.” Dean held it up on display. “This is how we’re gonna beat Lilith.”

            John’s reaction was opposite of Dean’s; rather than standing tall with an effervescence of anticipation, he seemed to deflate, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

            “Dean, we’ve been over this. A dozen times. Sam is _gone_ and it’s gonna take more than an outdated radio system to bring him back.”

            A tinge of scarlet anger colored Dean’s excitement. “Geeze, a little faith could go a long way, dad.”

            “There’s a difference between faith and false hope, Dean, and you’re toeing the line.” John settled a level stare on him, and Dean’s frustration ratcheted up a notch.

            “Yeah? Well, screw you, too. I can handle this myself.” He stalked for the stairs, tucking the radio under his arm.

            “Dean!” John followed him, catching up at the bottom of the stairs and spinning him around with a grip on his elbow. “This is over.”

            “The hell are you talking about?” Dean snapped. “We’ve been lookin’ for a way to get Sam back for two friggin’ months, and I finally found it. So can we please get past the pissing match and get this done?”

            John slid his hands into his pockets. “I’ve done my best to be understanding, Dean. I know this is the first time you’ve lost someone you cared about this much—”

            “Come again?” Dean said sharply.

            “This obsession to save Sam has got to stop. You heard Bobby, Dean. There’s nothing left to save. And besides that,” He glanced into the study, at Mary, sitting on the couch still and following their conversation with alert eyes. “There’s no way to draw Lilith out of her city. She’s smarter than that.”

            “Exactly.” Dean set the HAM down on the bottom step. “So we take the fight to her. If she wants Winchester warfare on her ass, I say we throw up our dukes.”

            “What about the warrant?” Mary set her book on the floor and joined them, leaning against the doorpost with her arms crossed. “If you set one foot inside a big city, Dean, you’ll have law enforcement watching every move you make.”

            “So? I’ll have you guys and Bobby backing me up. It’s not a big deal.”

            John’s face went cold, stormy-gray. “No.”

            Dean matched him, glare for glare. “I’m not gonna debate this with you, dad. I’m going after Sam.”

            “You’re right, we’re not gonna debate this, because I _won’t_ put my family on the line just to satisfy your mania for saving someone that _we can’t save_. It’s too late, Dean. The sooner you can accept that and move on, the _safer_ this family will be.”

            Dean folded his hand into a fist, warred the merits and detriments of smashing his fist into John’s face.

            “I’m not a kid.” He said, his voice steely calm. “It’s not your call.”

            Bobby’s voice, from behind him, was quiet but firm. “You’re right, it ain’t his call. But this is my house you’re livin’ in. And I’m sayin’ you’d best mind your daddy as long as you’re under my roof.”

            Dean whirled on him. “Whose side are you on?”

            “I’m on the side where we don’t toss our sons to the wolves!” Bobby snapped. “And like it or not, _Lilith_ is a wolf. She’s a nasty bitch, and you don’t stand a chance against her. None of us does. So sack up, accept what’s happened, and _move on_!”

            “I promised Sam I wouldn’t give up on him. And I don’t know about you guys, but to me, _that means something_!”

            “And Sam is _dead_.” Mary’s frank words stopped Dean cold, his gaze pinned to her, and he saw the measures she took to soften her tone: “I know how much you cared about him, Dean. But you’re not going to sacrifice yourself for revenge.”

            “This isn’t about _revenge_!” Dean snarled, and John shot him a quelling look that warned him he was one step away from outright disrespect toward Mary. With some effort, he modulated his voice. “If Sam was dead, I’d feel it. S’that simple.”

            “That only works in theory, Dean.” John’s eyes swept from Bobby to Mary and then settled back on Dean. “We’re done.”

            Dean gritted his molars together. “Don’t you—”

            “I said, _we’re done here_.”

            He walked out, the front door slamming behind him, rattling pictures on the walls. Mary looked to Dean, for an instant, her eyes full of bottomless sadness before she went after John, closing the door much more softly in her wake.

            Bobby scratched the back of his neck, “Balls,” and disappeared into the kitchen.

            Dean punched a hole in the drywall and draped his arm above his head, pillowing his temple on the wallpaper. “Son of a bitch.”

            John, or Sam. He was walking the line between the two, left with a choice in his hands. And it should’ve been easy; he should’ve chosen the family that was with him, the safest course of action.

            Instead, he went to the guest room; spent five minutes rooting through John’s effects, and came out victorious with the Colt, unburied from the bottom of John’s duffle bag. He slid the gun into the waistband of his jeans, feeling its weight like palpable betrayal, cold and gritty against his skin.

            He sat on the top of the staircase, hands palm-to-palm and resting against his mouth, planning his course of action; weighing together the risks and benefits, and deciding that when it all factored down to it, he had one goal, one purpose that was driving, that had been driving him since Lilith had left their battered family alone in that house: get to Sam. Bring Sam home.

            So when Mary stood in the study doorway than night and called him, softly, to dinner, Dean feigned sleep; head pillowed on his arm, eyes shut loosely, slowing his breathing to a crawl with his face burrowed in the cushy back of the couch. He forced himself to stay corpse-still as Mary pulled the throw off the back of the couch and spread it over him, kept his composure when she dropped a kiss onto his temple.

            He heard footsteps shuffling, low voices murmuring in the kitchen, and cookware clattering as Bobby cleaned up the pot roast he’d made, John quietly asking, “Need any help?”, and Bobby answering, “No, you folks head on up to bed. I’ll handle this.”

            Dean silently but fervently blessed Bobby’s rule about going to bed when the sun went down. It was a saving grace tonight.

            Eventually, the clamor in the kitchen died down, and Bobby stumped up the stairs to his bedroom. Dean waited, his respirations increasing, the only sound to fill the sizeable and silent downstairs of the house. Waiting, one eye creaking open, to see if anyone was coming back downstairs for something.

            After fifteen minutes, his muscles wound tight as springs, Dean couldn’t wait anymore. He sat up, yanked on his hoodie and jacket, laced up his boots and grabbed the keys to his truck off the bookshelf. He paused by the fridge, just long enough to grab a water bottle and a Tupperware of pot roast, and to jot down a quick note that he left on top of the HAM radio; then he was outside, down the steps into the tepid July night.

            His first stop was at the Impala, parked in the shadows of the house. Sliding the Tupperware container onto the roof, Dean popped the hood and propped it open with his shoulder. It took him less than a minute to locate and remove the sparkplugs, all that time tinkering under the hood to fix her paying off in spades. He wriggled the gas cap loose and let the fuel spill out and soak into the grass while he repeated the process on Bobby’s Kutless; keeping one eye, always, on the house.

            No dim glow to greet him, no sign that his absence was noticed. Dean stowed the gas caps under the porch, pocketed the sparkplugs from both vehicles and climbed into the cab of his truck, setting the food on the passenger’s seat.

            Draping his arms over the steering wheel, he swept one last glance over the still-dormant house; well aware that John was never going to forgive him for this.

            He turned the keys, the engine caught, and he pulled away from the house. “Tennessee it is, baby.”

            No turning back.

 

-X-

 

            He was two hours over the Tennessee border and nursing an eyestrain headache when Dean realized that finding Lilith in her city would be like unearthing a needle in a haystack. He’d had the radio cranked on softly since he’d left Sioux Falls, but no one was announcing where she was; they were covering other fights in other cities, that Meg demon that Dean had read about cleaning house in a Chicago League. Dean tuned it out in favor of running through his plan, over and over again.

            And that was how he ended up in Nashville, after all hours of driving and prepping himself to walk up to the door of the Gaiaphage itself and start a riot on Lilith’s front porch. His truck fell into the shadows of a steel jungle of high-rises and busy streets that looked like they’d never seen a scrap of decay, and Dean wondered why he’d ever looked anywhere else.

            Everything about Nashville screamed _big city_ ; pillars of bright silver wrapped in garlands of light, a steady influx of traffic, people swarming under a daylight-bright glow. The first year Dean had spent in New York, they’d visited the Big Apple, Time’s Square, on Christmas Eve. It was the last holiday season before Seeders had taken over, crushing the life out of the city’s industry, but Dean had a vivid, emblazoned memory of the dramatic display of light and color, like standing directly under a supernova star.

            Nashville felt like that: a myriad of backstreets and penthouses, bars and restaurants all captured under a metallic gold-green glow. More money was clenched in one man’s greedy fist than Dean’s family would see in a month, with or without Sam.

            _Sam_.

            Dean cranked the wheel hard right, turning off the main thoroughfare and onto a sidestreet; the shops off the beaten path could by no means be called seedy, but they were lower class, and from Dean’s experience word tended to travel faster where rich alcohol was served than in upscale brunches where everyone was as tight-lipped with their wine as their words.

            He parked the pickup under a slanted green-and-white striped awning, overcast with the guttering neon glow from a bar’s sign nearby. Dean pressed his spine to the seatback, squinting slightly as light from a passing car on the next intersection over cut across his windshield.

            He was surprised by his own level of calm, watching the headlights trundle on through the predawn murk; this was without a doubt that most reckless stunt he’d ever pulled, lending itself toward suicidal, but his chest was unknotted and his grip didn’t falter as he shoved the door open and hopped down onto the street; either way, if he survived or bit the bullet, Lilith was on the losing end.

            He stepped into the bar, scruffing a hand back through his hair.

            The establishment oozed propriety under a thin layer of squalidness, right off the bat. It was something beautiful decorated to look drab, a lie turning in on itself as the patrons ordered beers out of stained-glass mugs, and the barista wore a dress that looked like it belonged in a fashion rag in New York.

            Just like the demon that ran it, Dean was starting to think this entire city was one perfect sham tied in a rotting ribbon and offered only to those who were willing to play along. That made Dean, in himself, an exile. A breed apart.

            He slid in at the bar. “Hey, can I get a whiskey on the rocks?” He slapped a ten on the counter. “Make it a double-shot, sweetheart.”

            The barista scooped her shimmering auburn hair over her shoulder. “Rough night?” Her voice was sultry and her eyes invited him in a way that was well below professional. Dean had to remind himself to stay focused on the game plan.

            “Long drive.” He slid the cash toward her.

            She took the hint, and the money, with a comely grin, her fingers brushing his as she pocketed the money and turned toward the center island of brews, scotches, exotic wines and an assortment of glasses. Dean slapped a random tune on the bar counter with his flat palms, studying the patrons with his lips slightly pursed.

            Most of them didn’t look like seamy bar-types, anyhow. More like classy aristocrats who’d rather drink in a place where they weren’t forced to socialize. Now that he paid attention, Dean didn’t see many of them actually having conversations at all; aside from the jukebox playing an old Barry Manilow number, the snatches of conversation were mostly perfunctory and polite, _Excuse me_ , and, _Is that your drink, or mine_? No one seemed interested in people-watching, either.

            No one except for Dean, and, as his observation revealed, a woman further down the counter; her loosely-curled black hair swung midway down her back, framing a broad, attractive face and almond-shaped eyes. Dean shifted slightly on his stool, trying to nail down why the sight of her raised the hairs on his forearms.

            It wasn’t until she looked over her shoulder, toward a table in the corner with almost catlike fluidity, that Dean’s eyes caught sight of a licorice-black shine beneath her skin, inside the branchwork of her veins; like blood running too close to the surface, too dark to begin with.

            _Demon_.

            The barista slid the whiskey toward him and leaned her elbows on the counter, exemplifying her assets less than three feet away from his face. “I’ve never seen you in here before, cowboy.”

            Dean slid a glance toward her, and toward her chest, then back toward the demon. “Like I said. Long drive in.”

            “If you need to unwind…” She crooked her hair around her finger and bit down on her full bottom lip, and Dean decided if he didn’t get away from this girl _right now_ , he was going to drop the ball on this one.

            “Think I’m good, thanks.” He downed the whiskey in a few rapid swallows, banging the glass down hard on the counter and coughing, “Keep the change.” He kicked his stool back and got to his feet, sauntering further down the row toward the demon who was half-twisting her seat back and forth, idly stirring her martini.

            Dean leaned his elbow on the counter beside her. “You gotta tell me their fancy drinks are better then their whiskey here, ’cause, I gotta tell ya,” He blew out an exaggerated breath. “Not the best I’ve ever tasted.”

            She curled a red-lipped smile his way. “Could be better. Could be a _lot_ worse.”

            “Yeah?” Dean legged himself up onto the stool next to hers. “Sounds like you’ve got some experience with cheap booze.”

            “You could say that.” She sipped her martini, then looked him over, her forehead scrunching. “You’re not from around here, are you?” She didn’t give him a chance to respond. “What’s your name?”

            Dean blinked languidly at her. “Name’s Robert. And I’m an out-of-towner.” He smirked. “What gave me away?”

            “Well, you’re in the most backdoor bar in this city, striking up _conversation_?” She took another delicate drink. “You gotta be a new guy to make _that_ mistake.”

            “Sorry if I don’t think the rules exactly apply when I get the chance to strike up a conversation with someone,” He traced her physique with an appraising eye. “Like you.”

            She laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “Is that as deep as you go? Comparing alcohol and sweet-talking strangers?”

            “Gimmie a name and we won’t be strangers.”

            She tongued her lower lip, slowly, seeming to weigh out her opinion of him. “Dana Sullivan.”

            “Well, Dana Sullivan, ya got me.” Dean held up his hands in a wide shrug. “I don’t go much deeper than that.”

            She leaned toward him, her lips just grazing his earlobe when she whispered, “What makes you think I’d be interested, then?”

            Dean grinned as she pulled back again. “Be interested, don’t be interested, I’m not lookin’ for something committed, here. I’m just in town to cash in.”

            “Oh?” She arched an eyebrow. “Cash in on what, exactly?”

            Dean let the suspense build in before his answer, for a few seconds. “Lilith called me in. I’m supposed to report to her.”

            “ _Really_?” Dana’s eyes hooded. “Not sure I see much use for you, Robert. You don’t exactly have the look of a high-end gambler.”

            “Nah, see, I’m a hired gun.” Dean folded his arms on the bar counter. “Lilith’s had me keeping an eye on some candy-ass Handler for her, and I’m supposed to report to her today.” He tapped one finger on the polished wood for emphasis. “Problem is, I dunno where she’s got her base of operations set up.”

            “So, let me get this straight.” Dana toed her stool around toward him, her slender leg sliding against his jeans. “You’re telling me that Lilith hired you to keep an eye on some Handler for her—”

            “Not just any Handler. Gordon Walker. She said he was some kinda loose cannon.” Dean put in, stacking up his case.

            “Right. Walker.” Dana scissored her bangs from her forehead. “So Lilith sent you to tail this guy, but she didn’t tell you where you could find her?”

            “My guess is, she knew Walker was a bad bet. She didn’t wanna take a risk on him getting the jump on me and having me dish out to him on where she was.” Dean propped one elbow on the sloped back of the seat. “She said if I wanted to find her, I’d better drop into the, uh—” He made a quick sweep of the bar, his gaze falling on the sign over the door. “ _Country River Blues_ and talk to the prettiest girl I found. So, here I am.”

            “Well, aren’t you just full of charm and good looks?” Dana’s face scrunched with teasing. “And you really think I can help you find _Lilith_?”

            “Yeah, I do.” Dean brushed his fingertips against the varicose veins on the side of her neck, lingering there. “Dana. I really, really do.”

            She pulled back slightly, all of the humor gone from her face as she watched him; her expression was guarded, wary. “Who are you, really?”

            Dean leaned toward her. “My name is Robert Campbell. Lilith came to me at a fight a few months back and told me she’d pay me twenty-five grand to tail Gordon. I’ve almost gotten my ass chewed off and added a couple notches to my belt on the way. I did the job, now I wanna see the boss lady.”

            Dana watched him unblinking, sucking her bottom lip with a flat expression of calculation. “I really shouldn’t. I could get in big trouble.”

            “Look, you can take me yourself if you want. Make sure I’m not pulling anything shady.” Dean held up his hands. “I just want to drop off the report, take my money, and get the hell outta town.”

            Dana sighed, glancing toward the door. “If you take the main street through town for two blocks, hang a left, and take the roundabout, you’ll come up on the loading dock outside the Reactor. It’s the tallest building in town, you can’t miss it. That’s where Lilith is.” She plucked the olive from her martini and studied it, instead of him. “Ring the back buzzer, and some of Lilith’s underdogs should escort you inside.”

            Dean clapped a hand lightly on the counter with a curt, “Thanks,” and got to his feet. Dana turned her chair to follow him as he went.

            “I like you, Robert.” She said. “For your sake, I really hope you don’t end up like most of the people Lilith does business with.”

            It was an offer, a warning, clear as day, ringing loud like the gong of a cymbal through the murmurs of the bar: flee, or die.

            “I’ll take my chances.” Dean headed for the door.

            Dawn was strengthening as Dean stepped outside. Tugging at the throat of his hoodie, he climbed back into the truck cab, feeling a heady sense of relief tempered by an almost imperceptible nudge that his encounter in the bar had been almost too easy. He brushed that aside, started the engine and pulled back out onto the central causeway, following Dana’s instructions to the letter.

            She hadn’t led him wrong, either; the roundabout swirled him in a half-loop and spat him out on the far side of a chained-link gate topped with barbed wire, the kind that lifted on its own when you crossed the motion detector. Beyond it, centered in a wide, light-washed parking lot, was the Reactor: a massive spire of a building easily two or three dozen stories tall and humming with activity from the inside, and from underneath; Dean could feel it creeping through the floorboards of the truck.

            “Aw, that can’t be good,” He muttered. With the feeling of Dana’s skin still burning in his fingertips, the thought of demons having the kind of energy it would take to power a building this massive gave him goosebumps.

            He backed the truck into the street and parked across from the Reactor, swaggering over pothole puddles and ducking under the fence just when it started to lower again. There was a punch pad to open it on this side; Dean noted it in passing on his way to the loading dock. On the far side there was one door, gunmetal gray, and a port with a sliding sheet of steel for a covering. Dean took the moment’s reprieve outside to plot his next course of action.

            His ultimate goal, really, was to get in, look for Sam, and get out without crossing hairs with Lilith even once. Optimistically, he could get through the first checkmark on the list before he’d have to improvise. But he’d made it this far, at least, inside the gates of Lilith’s private castle, and that was something to give him a cocky injection of confidence.

            Pressing his back to the wall, Dean tugged the Colt from the waistband of his jeans and cocked the hammer back with his thumb. He reached for the buzzer, hesitated, glanced at the sporty cars parked across the lot.

            He crouched, plucked a loose portion of concrete from the edge of the dock, and lobbed it at the closest rear bumper.

            The concrete hit with a screech, bounced, and set off the blare of the car’s alarm. Within ten seconds the car beside it had joined the chorus, loud enough to make Dean hunch his shoulders slightly as he smacked the buzzer with the back of his hand, and tightened his grip on the Colt.

            The door swung open a minute later, a guard stepping out to investigate the commotion, the same brackets of blackness lancing through the veins of his arms as Dana had sported on her neck. Dean vaulted away from the wall, catching the man in a sleeper hold and jamming the Colt between their bodies. The kickback punched him in the hip, but the sound of the alarms muffled the gunshot as the demon slumped dead to the ground.

            “I’ll be damned, this thing actually works,” Dean planted a foot on the unmoving corpse. “Score one for the home team.”

            He relieved the guard of his keys, gun and pass-key, then fired at the rear of the blaring car. The second impact knocked the alarm off, and with a repeat action to the second vehicle, silence wrapped itself around the Reactor.

            Dean tugged the door shut on his way inside.

            His first thought was that he was in a boiler room; there was enough heat saturating the air to lend credit to that theory. But after the initial bite of an electric current humming through his teeth, Dean realized it wasn’t a furnace that was humidifying the room: it was the continual churning of hundreds of machines, laced together with wires sometimes as thick as Dean’s wrist, clicking data back and forth to each other in the language of computers. They were stacked in rows and columns, a city in itself inside the Reactor. The source of the vibration he’d felt.

            Every step that brought him closer to Sam served to sharpen Dean’s focus as well; he slid the Colt back into safety and stashed the guard’s gun beside it, hiding both under his hoodie and jacket, rumpled enough to conceal the bulge of the firearms.

            He encountered his first batch of demons in the middle of the machine-city, playing a casual round of poker. Six pairs of eyes swung to him and Dean felt a brief chatter of uneasiness down his vertebrae.

            “Where’s Alec? Thought I heard the cars going off.” One of the demons pinned a dry-eyed stare on Dean.

            “Oh, y’mean the guy who’s bangin’ Dana Sullivan out in the parking lot?” Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m one of Lilith’s contracts. Your boy Alec said I oughta head inside, ask you fellas to show me around since he was a little, y’know—busy.”

            “Nothing to show. Nobody comes in this room, nobody goes out, ’cept for Lilith and Lusiver.” A squat, potbellied demon slid his cards onto the table. “I fold.”

            “Right.” Dean drew the word out with a measure of disbelief. “Well, hey, I think I can probably use the directory, find my own way. You guys see Alec, tell him his secret’s safe with me.”

            “Not so fast.” One of the demons levered himself upright, squaring his broad shoulders. “Some of us may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. No human’s gonna walk around in here without an escort.”

            “Well, all right, Tiny.” Dean drawled. “You mind showin’ me to the Boss’s office? I’m a busy man, I wanna get this cut and dried so I can get back on the road.”

            The demon sneered. “You have a name, friend?”

            “Campbell.”

            “Well, Campbell, I suggest you show a little _respect_.” The demon motioned with his head. “Main hall’s this way.”

            “Later, boys.” Dean fell in behind his escort, taking a sweep of the room just in case he’d have to make a fast break back out. It had an easy enough layout to remember, a few turns before another heavy door. The demon pushed it open and they stepped into a soundproofed, windowless hallway.

            There was a hair-raising sound like steel wool on concrete from Dean’s right, something that reminded him of spraying blood and punches, bone-to-bone. He angled toward the sound, stopping in midstride.

            “Come on,” The demon beckoned to their left. “Lobby’s at the end of the hall.”

            Dean knew that sound; it was the Pit sound, the echo of bloodshed and squealing, writhing fear.

            “Y’know what, I’m gonna have to take a raincheck on that.”

            The demon crowded his personal space, filling Dean’s line of sight with his massive girth and a bitter unwashed smell. “Excuse me?”

            Dean slammed a right hook into his chin, six feet tall and boiling, protective rage, knocking the demon against the wall and scrambling him.

            “I’m here for my brother, you son of a bitch!” Dean crammed one knee into the demon’s groin, then boxed his ears, disorienting him, before he roundhouse kicked him to the chest and sent him slamming unconscious to the floor.

            Shaking a tingle of pain from his hand, Dean followed the sounds of violence to the door on the far end of the hallway; it was locked, but the pass-key in his back pocket bought him through that particular obstacle and he swung the door wide.

            It yawned open to a staircase, leading down and then sloping sharply to the right. Dean followed it, one hand on the wall to feel in the near-total darkness for the place where the wall ended. He turned, stepping down into a grayish-blue light.

            The smell hit him first, like hundreds of filthy bodies and the vinegar tang of urine. Shielding his nose and mouth with one arm, Dean swept a hopeless gaze over more than a hundred cages, some of them holding in the twisting, heaving angry bodies of monsters, some standing empty; some with occupants that lay too still, the lack of a telltale rise and fall of the ribs telling a story in itself. There were gouges on the walls, places where vicious claws had rutted in.

            The mechanical hum from the room above them spilled in between the occasional snarls of a few monsters hungry or furious enough to be mobile, and Dean realized there was a headache mounting in the back of his skull. He wanted _out_ , felt caged himself, the walls closing in on him.

            He stepped forward into the semidarkness and almost bolted from his skin as his head brushed something heavy and sharp, opening a shallow cut along his cheek. Dean ducked back, holding out a hand to still whatever had swished through the air. His fingers prickled at the touch of a nine-tailed whip, curled from a hook on the ceiling. The barbs were painted with rust-red blood.

            Bile surged into Dean’s throat at the thought of someone laying Sam’s skin open with those lethal, jagged hooks. He shoved the whip out of his line of sight and stepped into the room.

            Panting, hissing breaths crowded around him as he moved through the ranks of cages, wandering aimlessly, one hand on the Colt but not drawing it, not yet; if someone saw him now, he’d at least have a chance to retain his cover and rally before the real firefight started. And he was banking on that window of surprise, however brief it would be; he was a good shot, but to make it out of Lilith’s lair alive, he’d need to be more than good. _Excellent_ scratched the surface.

            “I’m screwed,” Dean grunted under his breath; then froze, every muscle tight as a wire, when he heard a distant rattle. It sparked a memory inside of him: a frigid barn at night, the feeling of slamming Sam’s body to the ground; the bite of his knuckles into John’s jaw. A hole in the ground beneath a covered shelter.

            Keys in the ignition.

            He ducked, putting his back to the wall beside one of the cages, pressing flat palms to the cold concrete of the foundation. He tucked his bowlegs in tight and made himself as diminutive a target as possible.

            The rattling continued, moving closer and bringing a silence in its wake that was almost uncanny. Like some sort of spell, it sucked the sound from the room behind it, leaving a void of darkness that could be both heard and felt, for all that lacked to be heard or felt at all. Dean felt a real prickle of _wrongness_ , of bearing witness to something that his gut told him was unnatural, even though he understood it, understood its ins and outs because he understood _Sam_ , in and out, and Sam knew the fear of that sound.

            A stocky shape passed by a few feet from Dean’s place, crunched between the back of a cage and the wall; Dean recognized the casual, languid stride as Azazel’s even before he caught a glint of a golden eye in the darkness, and a feeling of palpable rage swelled in his chest, so powerful it strangled him. He gritted his teeth and let a low, harsh growl of a breath slosh its way back and forth in his chest without giving any real voice to it.

            Azazel paused at the end of the row where Dean was pressed back into the shadows, lifting his head like a dog scenting the air; he glanced into the nearest cage, tapping the keys against the door with no response from the monster inside. He arched a one-shouldered shrug and continued on.

            Dean let out his breath, finally, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I can’t wait to ice that dick.”

            Squeezing his way between the wall and the next cage over, he moved low and fast, putting distance between him and Azazel until he met the next wall; he put his back to it, slid down into a crouch and rubbed his face with his hands, bringing them fisted together against his forehead, catching his breath. His heart was finally catching up to the danger, starting a brutal tango against his ribcage and making commendable efforts to climb out of his throat. Dean swallowed it back, swallowed down every reservation, and pushed himself back to his feet, taking stock of his surroundings.

            He was at the back of the massive, sprawling cage-room, surrounded on both sides by penned-in monsters that watched him with hungry eyes: vampires with lusty fangs extended, slobbering for his blood, werewolves with bright eyes waning back to normal as the full moon set outside. A Rugaru, whimpering for flesh, and a Chupacabra that Dean had to stop and stare at for a while.

            No Sam.

            “Come on, man, where are you?” Dean turned a half-circle, making a diligent assessment and coming up empty.

            Empty, except for another door that seemed to blend into the wall behind him.

            Dean stalked toward it, cautiously, one hand smoothing the butt of the Colt. He tested the knob; locked, but it was turn-style instead of digital. Dean knelt and unzipped his jacket, with one swift, sideways yank snapping the zipper off. He slid it into the groove between the wall and the knob, applying a steady backwards pressure until he felt the lock catch and slide in.

            Dean ripped the door open, greeted by a draft of cool air and fresh smell of decay. He coughed shallowly, eyes watering slightly, shaking off the reaction as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Sam?”

            No answer; the room was wider than it was long, cages interspersed at random through it. Dean dropped his arm and raised his voice slightly. “Sam, you in here?”

            Silence reigned supreme; disappointed, Dean turned for the door.

            And heard a soft, disbelieving voice: “ _Dean_ …?”

            The relief that struck him was like a physical blow, and he moved fast, long-legged, following some instinct that pulled him toward one of the cages near the back of the room; daylight fell in shafts through slatted windows at the crease of the wall and ceiling, highlighting the lanky figure folded into the back of the cage, arms draped loosely between his knees.

            Dean caught the bars, one hand above his head and one below. “ _Sam_.”

            He was sitting up, alert, better than Dean had hoped for and _not dead_. At the sound of Dean’s voice, Sam’s face split into that to-die-for smile, dimpling his cheeks; he peered up at Dean through his scruffy bangs. “I don’t believe it.”

            “Well, wipe the stars outta your eyes, pal. This is a Winchester Rescue Mission.”

            Sam slid forward onto his knees. “How did you—?”

            “Sam.” Dean cut him off. “Can we save the Q-and-A for _after_ we bust outta Alcatraz?” When Sam didn’t answer, some of the lightheaded relief dropped away, making way for a cold slither of dread. “Are you hurt?”

            “No more than usual, I guess.” Sam replied, quietly.

            Dean slapped one flat hand against the bars. “Oh, man, it’s good to see you.”

            Sam curled long fingers around the crossbeam, pulling himself to his feet. If Dean hadn’t known him so well, hadn’t known every strum of Sam’s muscles and the way he breathed, he would’ve missed the effort it cost him just to be vertical.

            “Yeah.” Sam pressed himself as close to the cage bars as he could, his chest heaving shallowly against Dean’s fingers. “Missed you, too.”

            Dean swept a glance across the cage, finding the door. He moved toward it and Sam followed him, the perfect shadowing. Dean fumbled with the lock, his heart sinking. “This is gonna take a key.” He glanced up. “Key, Sam?”

            “Uh, I dunno…Azazel, maybe?” Sam swayed slightly on his feet.

            Dean turned a stare on the door, deciding: facing the crafty yellow-eyed demon, or leaving Sam to rot while he searched for another way out.

            “All right, listen to me.” Dean crouched beside the cage, and like it was some sort of unspoken permission, Sam slid down to sit as well, his eyes glued to Dean’s face. Memorizing him all over again, just like after Dean had spent the month at Bobby’s. “I’m gonna go find those keys, and then I’m gonna get you outta here. Just hang in there, Sammy, all right?”

            Sam shook his head. “Dean. You shouldn’t have come down here, man. The demons know you’re inside.”

            “Good. Let ’em come. I could use a little action.”

            Strain and exasperation warred for control on Sam’s thin face. “You don’t know what they’re like. They’ll tear you apart.”

            “No, they won’t. I’m not gonna go down that easy.” Dean straightened. “Stay with me, Sam. I’m taking you home. Understand?”

            Sam let his head fall back against the bars, a painful swallow sliding his throat.

            “Sam—”

            “I hear your.” Sam murmured,

            “Atta boy.” Dean knocked his knuckles briefly against the door. “I’ll be back so fast you’re not gonna miss me.”

            “Dean.” Sam called him back. “What’s the plan?”

            Dean winked, tossing over his shoulder, “Just trust me, Sam.”

            A ruthless, heavy force slammed into Dean’s chin the second he had the door open; he reeled back, ricocheting into the nearest cage, screw-ribbed bars slicing into the exposed skin of his back where his clothing rucked up against his spine. A galaxy of tiny greenish stars burst in front of his eyes on impact, and he shook them away with effort, focusing in on a familiar, unwelcome face, a grunt of pain sliding from between his teeth.

            “Dean, Dean, Dean.” Lusiver clicked his tongue. “Why am I not surprised?”

            “ _Dean_?” Sam sounded a shade away from panic, and with some effort Dean braced a hand on the cage behind him and hauled himself to his feet.

            “You’re gonna have to hit me harder than that if you wanna walk out of this alive, chuckles.”

            “Not true.” Lusiver stepped into the room, casual and deadly. “How about: you go quietly upstairs with my men, or I make Sam wish he’d never been whelped?”

            Icy, venomous hatred spilled through Dean’s veins. “I’m gonna kill you myself.”

            “Not before I get to Sam,” Lusiver sing-songed.

            “All right, all right, fine!” Dean snarled. “I’ll play your friggin’ game!” He held his arms out in front of him, wrists together. “Cuff me, you asshat.”

            “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I _think_ , that you’ll be on your best behavior for us, Dean.” Lusiver moved past him, revealing two demons behind him, both dressed in pressed dark suits; Dean recognized them as the same lackeys who’d been there the day Lilith had come for Sam. “I’ll be taking your _little brother_ with me,” Lusiver’s tone turned the words into a mockery. “As insurance. If I don’t hear the order to stand down within the hour, I don’t think you’ll be seeing Sam again.”

            “You son of a bitch,” Dean shook his head slightly, grating the words underneath his breath as the demons flanked him on both sides.

            “Take him upstairs, gentlemen.” Lusiver addressed his subordinates. “I think Lilith’s going to want a word with this one.”

           

 


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Two: Pound of Flesh

 

            The Reactor was fancier the higher they went.

            Like climbing hand-over-hand from a landfill, the lights brightened and gritty gray walls adopted a fresh, glossy coat of white paint through the door on the far end of the hallway. Dean would’ve been able to appreciate the architecture, something he’d always found admirable if not fundamentally interesting while he lived in New York; but there was the small matter that his plan had imploded in on itself like a dying star, and Lusiver had Sam. It was enough to shackle his mind into concentration, noting the ostentatious quality of all the furnishings they came across as they walked, while simultaneously deciding that they wouldn’t aid in his escape, so what the hell use were they?

            Crisis tended to put everything in perspective.

            They crossed a circular ground-floor lobby, the center painted with a massive inverted pentagram that Dean considered to be a little heavy-handed in the irony department. Either demons were inclined to the cliché or they were making a joke out of their position, in any case it left a bad taste on the back of his tongue.

            The Reactor’s front wall was pure glass, a soaring paneled window arching to the ceiling. The demons frog-marched him to three clear-glass tubes, pressed a panel on the side of the first. The glass hissed and slid open, and Dean found himself thrust onto a bright silver plate with the demons crowding in beside him.

            The elevator whooshed, rocketing for the ceiling, and Dean was met with the stomach-to-his-knees sensation of temporary weightlessness; he’d almost forgotten what that felt like, in the months since New York.

            Through the side of the glass cylinder, Dean could see when they left the lobby, traveling up through layers of flooring, zipping by story after story, each one decked out better than the last. Literally, climbing the corporate chain, in every sense of the phrase. Dean let the backdrop slide into a blur, bringing his own darkened reflection into focus: dark jacket, gray hoodie, jeans, his brow hunkered low with the anger frothing in his gut, and a few days unshaven. He didn’t look like he belonged here any more than Lusiver did, equally casual.

            He kicked himself mentally for not putting on Alec’s worksuit after he’d shot him, though at this point he figured Sam had been right. The demons had made him, probably right off the jump; his plan had been doomed from the start. And right now he wanted to get his hands around Dana Sullivan’s throat, wanted to choke the life out of her. Not for himself; if he was being honest, he’d felt himself walking this wire for a long time. There was almost something resigned in knowing these demons had to be carting him up to his death.

            His anger, his pain, all of it, was for Sam.

            The cylindrical elevator settled on what felt like the top floor; felt like it, because Dean could feel the faint sway of the building as the wind moved it. Even the toughest architecture held a little dizziness on its high heights, and apparently Lilith’s primo Reactor was no different.

            The demons stepped out into a brightly-lit corridor, the floor furred with a deep-blue, diamond-studded carpet; one of them reached back for Dean, getting his grip fisted in the shoulder of his jacket before Dean knocked his hand away. He saw the mooks fall tense, ready to apprehend him, but he wasn’t looking at escape; he wasn’t that stupid. He was grafting seamlessly into Plan B.

            “Lead the way,” He said casually and after a moment the demons fell in behind him, herding him down the corridor; past vintage art that Dean recognized, originals that the demons must’ve snatched up when the museums that owned them went belly-up worldwide. Private collectors that nobody challenged because there was nobody _to_ challenge them, and no justice system to fall back on.

            At the end of the hallway, a pair of double-wide doors blocked their way; the demons moved around Dean and drew the doors open, revealing a Penthouse suite with sprawling sofas and chairs and tables, a single desk on a raised dais near the back wall; the back wall, which was really the front of the Reactor, a single sheet of glass that soaked in the newly-risen sun. Dean squinted one eye shut at the glare, waiting for his vision to adjust to the uniform brightness before, with a few rapid blinks, he moved back into his element of focus.

            They weren’t alone; standing behind the desk with her hands linked loosely at the small of her back, Lilith stared out over the city; _her_ big city, there was no way to skirt around that. She owned it with an iron fist, and Dean knew it. Could feel it in the hands of the demons on his shoulderblades, had heard it in the fear in Sam’s voice down in those cages; cages in a place of darkness and death-smell that you wouldn’t believe, standing in blueblood paradise of the upper twenty-fourth floor. This place was heaven above and hell below.

            “Thank you, gentlemen.” Lilith said, and Dean’s ears hadn’t forgotten that irritating, almost-innocent simpering voice. “You can leave us.” She faced them, her eyes sweeping Dean in a way that made him feel ground into the dust. “I don’t think _this_ one will be much of a threat.”

            The demons melded silently back through the door, shutting it behind them. Lilith remained still, a porcelain doll, for a few seconds before she let out a loud, dramatic groan that startled Dean.

            “I _swear_ , Dean, these demons.” She plucked off her earrings and tossed them onto the desk, not a trace of girlish youth in her voice anymore. “Every single day, it’s _Mistress Lilith_ , or _My Lady_. Like, _I’m sorry_ , what _century_ is this? I’m not some pompous bitch for you to cater and kowtow to.”

            Dean scrambled under the shift in her demeanor. “Well, you may not be pompous. But you are a bitch.”

            “See, _this_ is why I like you.” Lilith slid off her deathtrap high-heeled shoes, lobbing them onto the nearest couch. “All the manners people use around here gets real old, _real_ fast. But you…you’ve got a bedside manner a girl could _kill_ for.”

            “Uh-huh.” Dean let his wariness at her change in attitude melt into stoic indifference as he wandered the circumference of the room, seeing the decorations on the wall without really _seeing_ them. “So the whole _Queen of the Kingdom_ act is just—”

            “An act?” She finished. “No. I _am_ the queen, Dean. But unlike those last-century whores out there, I don’t believe a queen has to wear ridiculous dresses and attend state dinners to command respect.” She leaned her flat palms on the table. “I could show you what I mean. Let me bring Sam up here.”

            Dean swiveled to face her, the implication staining the air between them.

            “It’d be the last thing you’d ever do, sweetheart.”

            “You have one pathetic sense of humor.” Lilith admonished. “Of course, I’m not going to bring him up here. Lusiver’s got him. And while that man can’t be trusted to dress himself properly, I wouldn’t delegate the torture of a prisoner to anyone else.”

            Dean’s blood curdled with fury. “If you hurt my brother, I swear to God—”

            “He’s not your _brother_ , Dean!” Lilith snapped. “He’s not your flesh and blood. That bitch you call a mother? She didn’t squeeze him out. My kind _murdered_ his father, his real family, and we enjoyed it.”

            “Shut your caketrap.” Dean snarled. “This isn’t your debate. You don’t get the right to _tell_ me what Sam is. If I say he’s my brother. than he’s my _brother_ , you black-eyed skank!”

            “Well, your _brother_ ,” She stressed the word with contempt. “Is a sideshow freak. He’s not _human_ , Dean. That’s not the blood of Eden flowing in those veins. He’s what you people like to call a _Faceless_ , right?”

            “For now.” Dean said tautly; he wasn’t oblivious to the fact that Lilith was baiting him, trying to figure out how much he knew. Because the one thing he _did_ know was that _she_ knew what Sam was. Azazel had alluded as much.

            “Well, your baby brother is _ours_ , now. And I’m not feeling particularly generous. I don’t think I _want_ to hand him over to you just because you come walking in here with everything swinging in the wind.” She pulled out her chair and sat, with a casual sprawl. “I’ve seen a lot of bravado and measuring sticks in my time, Dean. You’ll have to do  better than that.” 

            Dean was across the room in a few steps, drawing the Colt and leveling it for her forehead. “How ’bout I waste you, huh?”

            Lilith’s eyes traveled along the barrel, up to his face, and she flashed a chilly, confident smile. “If that gun goes off, there will be demons in here before you can say ‘ _Yippie-kai-yay’_. You’ll be dead in seconds.”

            “Yeah, maybe.” Dean grunted. “On the other hand, you dying throws this whole system you’ve got going into chaos. So maybe I’ll take my chances.” He thumbed the hammer back, and Lilith swallowed minutely.

            “I could always kill you myself, before you get a finger on the trigger.”

            “Oh, I don’t doubt that, sweetheart.” Dean said. “Which is why I’ve got a little insurance.” He waited for the flicker of doubt to enter her eyes before he added, “See, I left instructions with someone before I came out here. I ain’t stupid. If Sam and I aren’t out in three days tops, then the whole country’s gonna hear about how you keep makin’ these crap deals and reneging on ’em. Once the word’s out that no one’s getting paid for all these contracts, then no one’s gonna do your dirty work. And it’s not like you’re gonna plug your own people in. Those ugly suckers stand out too much, huh? Nobody rusts a demon. So you lose your stooges on the inside, and your little mercenary business goes bottoms-up.”

            “Clever,” Lilith spat.

            Dean smirked viciously. “So, what’s it gonna be, huh? Me and Sam? You? Or this whole thing you’re cooking up? ’Cause I get the feeling you and I both wanna stay alive.”

            Lilith held her silence for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. “Why do you care so much about this pathetic little monster?”

            “He’s family.” Dean snarled. “I don’t expect a _demon_ to understand it.”

            “You humans really are going soft.” Lilith relaxed back into her chair. “Fine. You plotted this battle out to the letter. I can’t beat you, Dean. So I’ll give you Sam.”

            Dean loosened his stance ever-so-slightly, a warning prickle on the back of his neck. “Too easy.”

            She laughed cuttingly. “Of course, if I’m going to burn the contract, sign him over to you, I’ll want something in return. And you happen to have something I want.”

            “What? My _soul_?”

            “Oh, please, stop being so dramatic.” Lilith rolled her eyes. “No, I want the gun. That gun you’re holding, the only thing that can _kill_ my kind.”

            Dean’s grip tightened convulsively on the weapon, staring Lilith down; his mind banking rapidly, pulling the odd ends together.

            “You wanted this to happen.”

            She smiled. “And finally, he understands.”

            “You planted that chick at the bar; you _led_ me to Sam.”

            “I’m surprised it took you this long to find us, Dean. I’ve been waiting for over a month, now. Did you _honestly_ believe he was dead? I was sure you’d come looking for him as soon as I put _that_ piece on the radiowaves.”

            “So this whole thing—taking Sam in the first place?” Dean glared at her. “Why didn’t you just grab the gun when you had us pinned down?”

            “Because I thought, _maybe_ , Sam would finally be useful.” Lilith retorted. “I thought you’d hardened him into a real weapon. Turns out, he’s like a broken record. It’s always ‘ _Dean_ this, _John_ that, _I’m a Winchester_ ’. Honestly, if you hadn’t decided to show your face, I would’ve killed him myself.”

            Dean bristled with rage. “You set this up so I’d bring you the gun. Trade the Colt for Sam’s life.”

            “We have a winner.”

            The manipulated feeling left a bitter lesion in his throat, making swallowing difficult. “You gotta be kidding me.”

            She pursed her lips and shrugged. “You’re not the only one who knows how to hedge a bet, Dean.” She got to her feet. “The choice is yours now, Dean. Lusiver’s got Sam. Time’s running out. Trade the gun for Sam’s life, and you can have that worthless scrap of monster meat.”

            Dean cocked the hammer down, staring at the Colt; remembering a snowbank, roadside, and John telling him and Sam that the Colt and the Impala were the only things he had to trade with. The only material possessions he owned that were of any worth; and now, their only weapon against Lilith.

            Shoot Lilith, and Dean would die; _Sam_ would die. Give her the Colt, and they’d both make it out in one piece. Or however many pieces Sam was in, now that Lusiver was playing games with him in the basement.

            “Take me to Sam, and I’ll give you the gun.” He crammed it back into the waistband of his jeans. “ _After_ I make sure he’s all right.”

            Lilith cocked out her hip and folded her arms. “Deal.”

“One more thing. I wanna see you burn Sam’s contract.”

Lilith rolled her eyes, popped open the desk door and withdrew a folder that was almost bursting at the seams; she flipped through it casually, stroked her thumb down some kind of list, and finally pulled out the parchment-colored contract, handing it to Dean. “See? It’s the real deal.”

“Great.” Dean handed it back to her. “Light it up.”

With a scornful, arrogant sneer, Lilith pulled a Zippo from the next drawer down on the desk and flicked it to life. She set the flame to the corner of the contract, watching the reddish-blue glow morph into a small blaze and race up, crisping the edges of the paper until she was forced to drop it on the desk. Silence reigned until the last crumbled black corner curled in on itself.

“Well, that’s the end of a wasted investment.” Lilith nodded to the door. “Lusiver has him in the cells. I’ll take you there myself.”

            “What, you don’t trust me?”

            “I like to protect my investments.” She glided toward the door, and Dean turned in place to follow her, finding, suddenly, that there was a question sitting on the tip of his tongue that needed to be asked.

            “What are you demons?” His voice was quiet, slightly coarse. “I mean, _really_?”

            Lilith stopped and looked back, a glossy red smile tipping her lips, her eyes half-hooding with pleasure. “Why don’t you ask that cold shiver running down your spine?” When Dean held his ground, she cocked her head and swayed her way back toward him. “We’re freaks, Dean. Nature’s little anomalies.” Seeming to register, after a heartbeat, his expression of skepticism, her smile went taut. “What? Don’t tell me you never thought about it. I know what John raised you to be. And deep down, you’ve always known there were humans that didn’t fit the mold.”

            Dean’s smile was brief, unfeeling. “So you’re not some biblical plague against humanity?”

            “Some of my colleagues like to cultivate that idea. Everything about this is a game of power, Dean, and the ones who earn the most fear, earn the most _respect_. So, if you’re asking, _no._ We can’t possess people. We live in one body until we die, and that’s it.”

            “So, why? Hm? Why Sam, why the monsters? Where do they fit into your gigantic power-play?”

            Lilith folded her arms. “Believe it or not, our breed used to be the monsters. _We_ were the ones you normal humans hunted to the point of extinction. Turns out, being able to flip tables with your mind isn’t as impressive as a body count you can rack up on a good day. So they turned on us. Used us. Or put a bullet in our ancestors.” She shrugged flippantly. “And it turns out we weren’t _even_ the dumbest breed.”

            “Still not seeing your angle, here. There’s gotta be something you want, some huge pay-off in all of this.”

            “Who says we have to _want_ anything? Haven’t you ever done something just for _fun_?” Her eyes sparkled with a hazardous teasing, and Dean didn’t rise to the bait. After a few seconds, Lilith’s expression fell, back into something cold and furious. “I swear! We throw _one_ social curveball, and every single one of you lemmings lines up for slaughter with smiles on your faces. You think these fights really accomplish anything? All that’s happening is the world flushing itself down the toilet, and thanking us for it. You can’t buy that kind of satisfaction, Dean. The thrill alone is just priceless.”

            Dean’s hand torqued into a fist almost of its own accord. “Yeah, well, you screwed with the wrong family, sister. ’Cause, Sam? He’s a Winchester. And he’s not gonna be a part of you little Humanitarian Studies. We’re done. We’re _out_. And Colt or no Colt, we’re gonna find a way to kill you.”

            She laughed bitingly. “Let me know how that works out for you. Oh, and, um, Dean?” She tipped her head toward the door. “This is _Sam’s_ time you’re wasting, by the way. In case you forgot.”

            Dean resisted the urge to slam her against the wall by her throat; whether she was a demon like the Sunday-school stories, or a mutated semihuman stain on the natural order, he knew it wouldn’t do much good. “Lead the way, bitch.”

            “Keep sweet-talking me, and this might go somewhere.”

            Dean bided his silence, knowing that they’d reached an impasse. Lilith had Sam, Dean had the Colt; and Dean had information that she couldn’t trust him not to dish out once they escaped. There was a race coming, and fast, he could feel it churning under his skin; a race to see who could move faster, Dean to get the word out on Lilith’s deals, or Lilith to silence him.

            It was the most static feeling, to ride in that glass elevator with the enemy, knowing that the peace between them would only last until he had Sam. After that, it was anyone’s guess who was going to come out on top.

 

-X-

 

            Pain didn’t always numb over time; it didn’t always become something dull and murky-gray after you’d taken as much as you could handle. Sometimes it stayed vivid, white-hot and scalding-red, and it sharpened the edges of your world and made you aware of every single hurt you felt, all at once; it was like being dragged under by a ripcurrent, but no matter how much water you sucked in, begging for death, more kept pouring in. Your lungs burned with salt and seaweed-taste and your stomach convulsed and you vomited but it was all water, anyway, all the water you were drinking and drowning in except that it was _blood_ , because this was _hurt_ , this was _agony_ , this was _hell_.

            Sam was strapped to a wooden table, hair falling back from his face, sticky with sweat, splinters digging into his hips and lower back. Lusiver had bound his arms beside his head, his feet chained together, a contorted, macabre imitation of a crucifixion. He was slow-bleeding, slits in his wrists trickling out, out, out.

            This, only after the gouges in his ribs and across his chest. This, only after Lusiver had told him Lilith was flaying the skin off of Dean’s bones upstairs. This, only _after_ Sam had faced a hundred other sessions in God knew how many days, weeks, months— _years?_ —since the demons had taken him from his home. A lab-rat in a maze, but no matter how hard he searched he was always going the wrong way. From a fighter back to being fodder for another monster. Half-starved, tortured because they wanted to know _what made him tick_ , it was hard to hold his own against anything.

            And then there had been Dean; right there, close enough to touch, close enough to feel his breath and smell the leather-and-oil scent of his truck on him. Like an illusion, except with too many rough edges, too _Dean_ to _be_ imagined. And Lusiver had given him over to Lilith, brought Sam down here, to the lowest level, as far from Dean as he could be while they still existed in the same place.

            Thirty-six seconds ago, Lusiver had grown tired of waiting; dragging his scalpel with deft precision down Sam’s arms, laying open the skin along his veins, and he was bleeding out, out, out. Dying slowly.

            Fading, drifting, the hurts still realized, but the muffled quality of his senses was finally, mercifully coming on. If he had to die, at least he’d seen Dean first; at least he knew his family cared, that they’d come for him, hadn’t forgotten him. If it wasn’t for the pain, it might’ve been peaceful; if he could just stop rocking his hips, squirming his arms against their restraints, punctuated whimpers sliding from his convulsing throat. If he could just hang tough and stop his own labored breathing. Lusiver was circling him, tapping the bloodstained scalpel against his own chin; Sam could hear it.

            “My, my, you really are a tough little worm,” He commented. “But soft. Just a soft little thing. Look at how easily you bleed.”

            There was a chatter, a _bang_ of the massive steel door being heaved open. Sam wondered if he was being left alone to die, his blood carving into the wood, soaking it, dripping onto the floor.

            He heard Lilith’s voice, a razor slicing into the illusion of muted peace: “ _What did you do? I told you not to kill him yet_!”

            Sam rocked his head sideways on the table, his cheek collecting splinters, letting his eyes slit open; through a mesh of misty tears, he saw Lilith standing in the doorway, hands perched on her hips. And behind her, a familiar face. So familiar and so welcome it was like water to douse the fire that raced through his draining veins.

            Sam found his voice, buried deep inside his throat: “ _Dean._ ”

            And Dean almost knocked Lilith against the wall in his haste to get past her; Sam felt Dean’s touch glide past the grisly stripes on his wrists, fumbling at the ropes that held him down. Letting out a slow, unsteady breath, his eyes drifting shut, Sam let himself be buoyed up by the relief. _Dean’s here_. Losing himself to the feeling of the abrading cords being slackened from his wrists. He couldn’t bring himself to move his arms once he was free, the numbness spreading, caressing the corners of his mind.

            The chain snaked off his ankles and clattered to the floor, and then Dean seemed to realize Sam wasn’t moving, wasn’t _able_ to move, to help himself, because he was back by Sam’s head in seconds. “Sammy, hey! Hey-hey-hey, look at me, pal. You with me?”

            “Nnn—n-hn.” Sam panted a strained affirmation.

            “All right, here we go. Here we go,” Dean slid an arm underneath his head, bolstering Sam upright, stripping off his own jacket and wrapping it around the weeping open wounds on Sam’s wrists. He leaned his shoulder against Sam’s, propping him upright, and Sam leaned back, his head listing against Dean’s.

            “Thanks.” He managed; and the word encompassed a world of things. Bottom line, that Dean was even _here_ to begin with.

            Dean squeezed the back of his neck gently. “Hey, you’re family. Don’t need to thank me.”

            Sam let his eyes slide shut again, blocking out Lilith and Lusiver, still hovering near the doorway. He wanted to compress into himself, hide inside a moment where it was just him and Dean and nothing else mattered. The smallest, surest taste of anything close to _okay_ that he’d had in weeks; Dean’s hands, staunching the bleeding, the only reality that crept in past the pain.

            “Our deal?” Lilith’s frosty tone penetrated, striking out the illusion of singularity, and Sam picked his head up, weakly.

            “Deal?” His voice sounded wet and wrung-out to his own ears. “Dean? What’s she talking about?”

            Dean’s answer was to tug Sam’s arms more securely together, wrapping the jacket in between them. “Keep pressure on that, all right?”

            He joined the demons in the doorway, sliding something out from his waistband; Sam caught a glimpse of rum-brown under the garish fluorescent light, sparking a memory and a sense of apprehension. He tried to slide his feet off the table, felt the world tip and rotate violently, and he slammed his eyes shut again.

            “I’ve still got your number,” Dean’s tone, in itself, was a threat. “You let us walk out of here, or this whole thing goes to hell.”

            “I’m aware.” Lilith replied, sounding bored. “Lusiver, take this upstairs. Show the boys, they’ll know what to do.”

            A stitch in Sam’s chest loosened as he heard footsteps retreating.

            Dean’s hand found his shoulder, “Sammy, you still there?”

            “I’m with you.” Sam replied, exhausted, aching all over, his wrists throbbing with a vengeance. Dean peeled the sticky jacket back.

            “Ah, crap, you’re probably gonna need stitches.” He said. “’Least the bleeding’s slowing down.”

            “Is it?”

            Dean snorted a soft laugh. “Yeah, Sammy, you’re gonna be fine. By the way, you need a haircut.”

            Sam tucked his head down. “It’s on my to-do list.”

            “C’mon.” Dean curled an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get you outta here.” He half-shoved, half-pulled Sam off the wooden table, steadying him with an added hand to his chest when his knees buckled. Pain radiated through Sam’s body from the soles of his bare feet to the top of his head, and he was distantly aware that he probably smelled as terrible as he looked; but Dean didn’t seem to mind as he supported Sam toward the door, one arm still secure across his back.

            Sam twitched away from Lilith as they passed her in the doorway, almost too done in with fatigue to feel the fear that transcended everything else when she was close enough to smell, close enough to _feel_ , power radiating off her in an acidic wave. Sam turned his face away, leaning all the more heavily against Dean, half-expecting Lilith to reach out for him, to knot her fingers in his hair and rip him off balance, rip him away from the safety of Dean’s hold and back into his hell.

            But Lilith didn’t; her voice smooth and sweet, reached after them instead: “Dean.”

            They stopped, and Sam, feeling the first curl of nausea in his gut, stepped out of Dean’s hold. Bracing himself with his legs spread slightly, trying to still the ship-on-waves rocking of the world, he buckled backward slightly as Dean put out an arm in front of him, a safeguard, protection, and a promise. _I’m right here, Sam._

            “We’re _done_.” Dean spat the word toward Lilith’s feet. “Sam, c’mon.”

            “Not so fast, Dean. There’s one little issue we _didn’t_ cover.” Lilith smiled. “You _did_ break into my building, after all. That’s a serious crime. And I still need my pound of flesh for that.” A glint, a flash of something lethal winged its way through her eyes; and before Sam could manage more than a syllable of warning, he was rocketing through the air, slamming into the wall hard enough to swirl stripes of black across his vision for half a second. He doubled over, cinching his injured arms more tightly against his midsection,  and picking his head up just in time to see Dean smash into the wall across from him, pinned almost spread-eagled, body quivering with tension.

            When Sam tried to straighten, Lilith twitched her fingers his way, and he found himself thrust flush against the wall, every bump of his vertebrae like a hammerstrike straight into his brain. He gagged out air, his breath chuffing noisily into his lungs, as Lilith stepped into the space between them. Hard ropes of kinetic energy lassoed Sam to the wall.

            “Dean, remember how I told you my kind were anomalies?” Lilith put her back to Sam, but gave him clear view of Dean, struggling visibly against whatever was restraining them both, binding them in place. “We have power. Power you humans like to write into your science-fiction books and your fantasy stories. Mutations. Genetic _freaks_. Every single one of us, we can do something special.” She cocked her head. “Do you want to know what my power is?”

            Dean craned his head away from the wall. “Being a royal bitch?”

            Sam saw the smile cutting across her face. “Wrong answer.”

            Her hand shot up and a concussion of power seemed to burst from her hand. A half-strangled, agonized gurgle spilled from Dean’s mouth, along with a shower of blood.

            Sam bucked the hold on his body. “ _Dean_!”

            He heard Lilith’s airy laugh as blood jetted from Dean’s lips and cascaded down his chin, soaking the front of his shirt; so much blood, _too_ much blood, a shining tide of it bearding his face. Dean’s chin dropped to his chest and a barely-human cry of pain spewed from him in tandem with another gush of scarlet.

            Sam thrashed wildly. “No! _Stop it!_ _No_!”

            Lilith dropped her hand back to her side, and whatever power had held Sam and Dean captive, released them. Dean slumped to his knees, to his side, and lay still; blood inked the front of his hoodie.

            Sam ignored Lilith, she didn’t matter, he didn’t _care_. He tumbled to his knees beside Dean, supporting his head with one hand. “Dean! Hey—”

            Dean’s eyelids flickered, his gaze untrained, unfocused, staring emptily under Sam’s arm, almost sleepy, almost gone. “Sammy…”

            If he lived a hundred years or died, here, now, in this hallway with Lilith, Sam would carry the broken soft sound of Dean’s voice with him to the grave. He rested a hand on Dean’s side, his fingers encountering something solid and heavy under his hoodie.

            “Better get him out of here, before he bleeds to death.” Lilith said flatly.

            Sam pulled out the weapon, twisted around, fired blind; but Lilith was already gone, out of his reach, before she winged back I to seize him by the chin, ripping him away from Dean and ramming him into the wall.

            “Sammy,” Dean’s voice was congested with blood, his lips speckled with it. “You stay away from him, bitch.”

            Lilith ignored him, her sneering focus all for Sam. “If you really think it’s going to be easy, think again, Sam. I’ll guarantee you’ll be back with us, soon. And next time, you’ll come because you choose to.”

            “You can go to hell.” Sam headbutted her, loosening her hold and discoloring his own vision; but in the slack of Lilith’s grip, he slipped loose and crouched over Dean, protective and vibrating with rage. “Winchesters don’t cave in that easy. The next time we see you, it’ll be because we came to _kill_ you.”

            “We’ll see.” Lilith grinned, actually _grinned_ , with blood soaking between her bare toes, and then she walked away down the hall, tossing over her shoulder, “You know the way out.”

            Sam waited until she disappeared at the curve of the cell corridor. Then he dropped the gun, laid a hand on the back of Dean’s neck, the way Dean had always done for him; in an instant, Sam’s serrated wrists didn’t matter, the pain in his back, the weeks of torture before that. His world shrank to the feeling of Dean’s pulse under his fingertips.

            Still there, still breathing.

            Sam’s breath whooshed from his lungs and he scooped an arm under Dean’s middle, pulling them both to their feet. Dean tried to shove away from him, with a muted, “I can walk my own damn self,” except the words all ran together in a jumbled slur. Sam caught the gist of it, though, and figured, that was _Dean_ , just Dean, bleeding from his mouth by injuries unknown, and still insisting he could carry his own weight.

            Sam knew better.

            “No, you can’t.” He retrieved the gun. “For once, just let me save _you_ , all right? It’s the only way we’re getting out of here.”

            Dean slung his arm around Sam’s neck, lightening the load slightly, and then the only thing left to do was _move_.

            As fast they could, through the cell corridor—Sam knew the switchbacks like he knew his own name—and into the lower hallway. Across from them, the door vibrated with the abundant energy of computers on the far side.

            “Take that door.” Dean gestured toward it.

            “Dean—”

            “ _Take it_.”

            The words couldn’t have had more power if there’d been any real force behind them; it was the softness in the way Dean said it that got Sam moving, punching the door in with a blow from his shoulder that lanced a sharp pain down through his shredded wrist. He hefted the gun in one hand, moving the sights from demon to demon as he faced a flock of them, half a dozen seated around a Formica table.

            “ _Stay back_!” He poured all of the authority into the words that he could muster, sidling around the far edge of the gathering. The demons didn’t move, eyes shifting from the gun to Sam’s face; Sam knew it couldn’t kill them, knew that _they_ knew, but apparently the threat of the pain, or else Lilith’s orders, were enough to keep the dogs of war at bay.

            A buzzer sounded somewhere above the hum of machines as Sam backed out the door, turning, almost tripping over a body sprawled on the pavement. He stepped over it, hitching his arm more securely around Dean’s waist and plowing for the only exit: the mechanical gate.

            “Punch-pad,” Dean’s head hung low. “You gotta—”

            “I know what to do, Dean, dammit!” Sam rammed his elbow onto the switchplate and the gate started to lift, with nerve-rattling slowness. Sam felt Dean shudder, and reached toward him just in time to catch an added dribble of blood on his hand just as it passed under Dean’s chin. “No-no-no, Dean, hey. Stay with me, man.”

            Mute and laconic, Dean nodded.

            Sam could see the truck as he ducked under the green-plated gate, limping across the open stretch of road to the cab with Dean all but deadweight against his side. He maneuvered the passenger’s side door open and bolstered Dean onto the seat, thrown into a feeling of frantic fear when Dean didn’t do anything to support himself, slumping against the window when Sam shut the door.

            Back around the front fender, his hand feeling the familiar bulge of the truck’s nose, and Sam climbed into the front seat. He pulled down the visor, turning up nothing.

            “Keys. Dean, I need the keys!”

            “Back pocket.” Dean shifted away from him and Sam reached for the keys, the jacket sliding off his wrists and bringing a hiss of pain from him. He hooked the ring and withdrew it from Dean’s pocket, feeling an icy shattering in his chest at the collision of noise, pummeling his eardrums. Sucking him back down, through the seat, through the street, into the cages.

            “Sam.” Dean said, never louder than a whisper. “It’s okay.”

            Sam steeled himself, snatched the keys to silence them, and nodded. He jammed them into the ignition and took a deep breath, muttering to himself, “Okay. Clutch in—start the car—”

            He talked himself through the steps, alternating clutch and gas, pulling out onto the arterial street that bisected Nashville almost in two. His heart rioted against his ribs and every glance in the rearview mirror came with the fear that he would see demons swarming after them.

            But the road stayed clear, until Sam could finally focus on going forward, not looking back. He glanced at Dean, still half-curled against the window, his breath steaming the glass.

            “Dean?” Sam’s voice punched through an octave. “You lost a lot of blood.”

            “I’ll be fine.” Dean’s breathing seemed to accelerate. “Sammy, I’m sorry.”

            Sam glanced over at him again, quickly. “Sorry for what? _Dean_?”

            “I never shoulda…put you in those fights. I should’ve pulled you out after Lancaster, first time I saw you get hurt.”

            The apology took Sam off his guard, unexpected. “Dean, I wanted to stay in. I wanted to help.”

            “No, you didn’t.” Dean insisted, and how he could argue when he was bleeding like that, Sam didn’t know. “You did it for me. For mom and dad. S’not when you wanted.”

            “You gave me what I wanted, Dean. You’re my family. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I’d fight every monster they’ve got.”

            “You don’t have to.” Dean picked his head up, meeting Sam’s eyes blearily, still with that mask of blood around his mouth. “I’m pullin’ the plug, Sam. You’re out.”

            Sam laced his fingers tight over the steering wheel, trying to brake smoothly as they approached a stop light. “Doesn’t matter. None of that matters right now.” He picked up the jacket from the floorboards, draping it over Dean’s shoulder. “Just hang on, Dean.”

            “How’re your wrists?” Dean let his head fall back against the door.

            “I’ll live. Barely even bleeding.”

            “Need to stitch you up.”

            “No, we need to get _you_ someplace safe, so we can figure out what Lilith did to you.” Sam’s tone edged toward frantic again.

            “Not Lawrence.” Dean coughed into his wrist, smearing red ribbons down his hand. “Sioux Falls.”

            “Sioux Falls? Isn’t that where Bobby lives?” No response. “Dean, I don’t know where Sioux Falls is.”

            “I’ll get us there. Just go where I say.” Dean folded into himself. “Agh, God, what the hell did she _do_ to me, I can’t—”

            _I can’t do this_ , implied, and stilting the air they breathed.

            Sam reached over, pulled Dean toward him, pulled him insistently until Dean was leaning against him, his temple on Sam’s shoulder. From that angle, Sam was able to press his oozing wrist into the jacket, hide and stem the flow while simultaneously offering comfort, the kind he had no words for.

            It was a mark of how weakened Dean must be, that he didn’t fight it, didn’t call unfair or unwanted touch, too-close, not manly enough. He stayed slumped over, his elbow digging into Sam’s ribs, and Sam kept a one-hand feel on the steering wheel with the other knotted into the jacket, monitoring Dean’s breathing. Blocking out the Reactor, Lilith, Lusiver, and everything in between.

            He’d deal with the rest once they reached Sioux Falls.

 

-X-

 

            John paced the kitchen of Bobby’s house, hands torn back through his hair. “You’re kidding me, Singer. You don’t have spare sparkplugs for either of those cars?”

            “That’s what I said. Walked up and down rows for half the damn night, I can’t get a decent match.” Bobby leaned against the refrigerator, arms folded, with Mary a few feet away, her hand covering her eyes.

            “We should’ve watched him. We _knew_ he’d do this.” She shifted her palm down to cover her mouth.

            “I thought he might have the common sense not to, _dammit_!” John swept a stack of books off the table, winging volumes into the corner, breaking their spines against the wall. “Thought I could trust him!”

            “Simmer down, John.” Bobby cautioned.

            “Don’t lecture me, Bobby, you saw the note!” John rounded on him. “Dean went after _Lilith_. He took the gun!”

            Mary cleared her throat. “How long has it been, Bobby?” With every passing hour since they’d woken to find the note pinned to the HAM radio, the cars disabled and Dean’s truck gone, Mary had grown quieter and quieter; a distant gaze watched her worst nightmare playing out right before her eyes. It broke John’s heart to see it.

            Bobby checked his watch. “Day and a half, maybe two.”

            “And he said we should make the broadcast if they weren’t home in three days.” Mary met John’s gaze. “We’ve still got time.”

            “Time for what? If Dean’s bleeding to death in a ditch somewhere, then we don’t have any damn _time_ , Mare.”

            “Maybe he’ll surprise you.” Bobby suggested.

            “I can’t just sit here with my thumbs up my ass while my son’s out there, going toe to toe with the demon that runs the whole fighting industry.” John dropped his arms. “Bobby, there’s gotta be something we can do.”

            Bobby’s eyes feathered with compassion. “I got enough fuel to maybe get your Impala halfway there. But minus the gas caps and sparkplugs, there really ain’t much I can get done, John. I’m sorry, God knows I am; God knows I’d chase the idjit myself if I could. But he thought this out proper, and he’s left us up the creek.”

            John flattened a hand on the HAM radio. “You said you can’t pick up a broadcast out there?”

            “Not a one.” Bobby frowned. “The wires ain’t pickin’ up jack squat since yesterday mornin’. You better damn well hope whatever’s broke out there gets fixed, or Dean’s treasure map’s gonna be a bust.”

            “I don’t believe this,” John growled, and his words were underscored by a knock at the back door door. John and Bobby exchanged a glance.

            “Probably Handlers lookin’ for a trade.” Bobby headed for the mud room, and John moved closer to Mary, rubbing his hands gently over her upper arms.

            “We’ll figure it out, Mare.”

            She nodded, not a confirmation but not denial, either. Wrapped inside her own thoughts and horrific ideas.

            They heard Bobby cuss. “Holy Moses, I don’t believe it.” And then, louder, “John! Mary!”

            They were on his heels in seconds, greeted by a sight in the doorway that plunged John’s heart straight to his knees.

            Sam leaned against the railing of the porch, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and neck; sickly and jaundiced with malnourishment, brackets of pain and shadows carved into his face. Not healthy, but not dead, _not dead_ , and the stab of relief he felt was more of a surprise to John than anything else.

            And then there was Dean; his arm draped over Sam’s shoulders, moving slow, wincing, holding his midsection with his arm.

            “Bobby, can you find some bandages?” Mary said shallowly, and Bobby went, without protest.

            Sam’s eyes bored into John’s. “Help him.”

            The words unstuck John from his frozen shock; he stepped forward just as Dean pulled his arm back from Sam’s grip, fumbling to his knees just inside the doorway. John crouched in front of Dean, pressing the heel of his hand to Dean’s forehead, his thumb brushing a thin stripe of blood beside Dean’s hairline. More blood starched the front of his hoodie and crusted his chin.

            “My God.” John murmured.

            “Yeah, you shoulda seen the other guy.” Dean’s eyes were half-lidded, a permanent wobbly smile fixed in place. When he shifted his weight forward onto his palms, his breath caught. “Kinda put a hitch in my giddyup, dad.”

            It was the most John had ever heard Dean admit to anything on the scale of pain, and it ripped something inside of him clean in two. He gripped the back of Dean’s hoodie and drew him closer, tucking Dean against him, his chin on the top of Dean’s head.

            “You’re a stupid kinda crazy, Deano.” He said, and felt the ghost of Dean’s laughter on his neck.

            “’M’ not sorry, dad. I had to get Sam.”

            From the corner of his eye, John saw Sam shift his weight from foot to foot.

            “Forget about that for right now.” John murmured, finding that, with Dean in his embrace, the anger was sloughing away. “It’s good to have you home.”

            “I was right.” Dean added. “Told ya he was alive. Kid drove us home from Tennessee.” Even battered, injured, the pride in Dean’s voice was unmistakable; and it was all for Sam.

            John looked to him, again, realized that Sam’s eyes had gone unfocused and he was trembling slightly, like he’d been trapped in a cold patch.

            Mary stepped forward almost tentatively. “Sam?”

            His head jerked, turning her way, and when their eyes met Mary opened her arms to him without a word.

            Sam seemed to break, something strong and straight-backed inside of him pulling apart at the seams. He staggered toward her and let his head fall over Mary’s shoulder, his arms around her, face buried in her hair.

            Mary secured him in her hold, powerful for a woman almost a foot shorter than him. “Sam, are you all right?” She asked, clearly alarmed.

            John saw Sam’s fists tighten in the back of her shirt. “ _No, mom, I’m not_.”

            Mary’s eyes creased with compassion. “Oh, sweetheart.”

She sank down on the carpet, pulling Sam with her, her fingers stroking the hair that flattened against the nape of his neck, over and over again.

            With his free hand, John reached over to grip Sam’s shoulder.

            They huddled in the doorway, a broken family with the shadows of their pain blotting out the sun, John and Mary holding their boys. Shattered, bloodstained.

But finally together again.

 


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter Twenty-Three: Mercy

 

 

“He’s got a belly fulla blood, but I can’t find a leak. Whatever she did to him, Lilith musta patched Dean up proper before she sent him on his way. Woulda hurt like a sonuvabitch, I’m guessin’.”

Bobby’s diagnosis, delivered as he stepped out of the guest room, wasn’t much comfort. Sitting with his back to the wall, his arms linked loosely around knees pulled halfway to his chest, John stared up at Bobby with harrowed eyes. “So he’s not bleeding out?”

“Oh, he’ll be coughin’ up what’s left inside for a few days, probably won’t have much of an appetite. But I’d say he’s outta the woods for the most part.”

John rubbed a hand down his face. “Thank God.” He murmured, and then he met Bobby’s eyes again. “What about Sam?”

“Sam’s another case.” Bobby said grimly. “He’s got a laundry list of hurts: couple sprains and fractures, he’s starved half to hell, got a healing concussion and a lotta bloodloss, like Dean. Truth be told I’m surprised those boys lasted all the way from the _Hog and Hominy State_ to my door.”

“They had each other.” John pointed out.

“Surprised to hear that comin’ from your mouth.”

“It’s the truth and we both know it, Singer.” John shifted his numb tailbone on the floor. “Anything else I need to know about?”

“Dean’s out for the count. Boy’s on the right side of anemic, so he’ll be pretty lazy for a few days. I got Sam’s wrists patched up, but he wouldn’t have that needle close to him for stitches. Pulled out the puppy-dog eyes.”

“You’re a softy.” John teased.

“Kiss my ass.”

“The angle’s about right.” John pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll have a talk with Sam. Is he awake?”

“Last I checked.” Bobby nodded down the hall. “I sussed it out in my head. Since those boys are takin’ up the two guest beds, you and Mary can have the master bedroom. I’ll sleep on the couch. Lord knows I spent enough nights on that sofa to call it home.”

“Thanks, Bobby. We appreciate it.” John said.

“Well, ain’t that novel: John Winchester showin’ respect.”

“First time for everything, but let’s keep that between you and me. I got a reputation to maintain, here.”

“Now who’s a softy?”

“Up yours, Singer.”

“You ain’t my type.”

“Okay, okay, enough.” John slid the bedroom door wide, glancing back at Bobby and pitching his voice low. “Tell Mary I’ll be down in a minute.”

            Bobby nodded.

John bumped the door open, stepping into the room and then sliding into the narrow gap between the foot of Sam’s bed and the wall beside the door, nudging it shut quietly behind him. Sam, silent and alert, was watching him, sitting on the bed with his bandaged wrists upturned like a prisoner waiting to be shackled.

John pushed Sam’s legs gently out of the way and sat on the foot of his bed, “Hey, Sam. How you holdin’ up?”

“M’better, sir.” Sam avoided his eyes, plucking long fingers over the threadbare bedspread. “Is Dean okay?”

It figured, John thought, that Sam’s attention was all for Dean’s ailments rather than his own. “He’s just fine, Sam. A little anemic, but he’ll pull by all right.”

“It’s my fault he got hurt.” Sam’s eyes slid sideways, his expression taut, voice taut; a coiled wire sitting on the bed. “If he hadn’t come looking for me, none of this would’ve happened.”

“He wouldn’t be Dean if he stayed away.”

“Damn straight.” The mumble issued from the other bed, where Dean was lying with his face wedged securely into his pillow, and Sam and John both sent ironic half-smiles his way.

“You faker.” John grumbled.

“I’m mostly asleep. Keep emoting.” Dean flipped over, burying his arms under the pillow and letting out a groan. “Quit blaming yourself, Sam.”

Sam twitched another smile, this one reluctant, looking back to the bedspread, then to John. “Dean says I don’t have to fight anymore.”

“He’s right.”

Sam cocked his head. “ _Why_? What changed?”

“Sometimes it takes losing something to make you realize what you had to start with.” John leaned his weight on one hand, sinking into the creaky mattress. “We put you through too much, Sam. When we looked at you, we saw a monster with one purpose, and one purpose only: fighting.”

“You took care of me.” Sam protested.

“If I did, I was being selfish.” John said, remembering, a warm day of washing cars and _no more secrets, no more lies_. “I was doing it for Dean.”

“I don’t….” Sam’s expression was lost, adrift, glassy. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me you forgive me.”

Sam’s eyes flipped wide as the words scraped from John’s throat. “Sir?”

“I may be pissed off at Dean for leaving, and I may not know what you are, even after all this time: but facts are facts, and you brought my son back when you could’ve run. You could’ve gone anywhere. But you came back to us, after everything we put you through. You brought Dean home.” John focused his gaze on the ceiling. “So I’m asking you, Sam, to forgive me.”

“Yeah,” Sam’s voice was unimaginably soft; not just quiet, but compassionate with understanding. “I forgive you.”

John breathed out, long and silent, feeling a marginal weight lifting off his chest. He nodded to Sam’s wrists. “Bobby said you weren’t having stitches.”

A meteoric blaze of fear traveled through Sam’s eyes, then winked out. “It’ll heal all right on its own.”

“It’ll heal faster with stitches.” John insisted. “I’ve got a steady hand. You mind if I give it a shot?”

Sam hesitated, thirty seconds, a full minute; then nodded, reluctantly.

From all the summers he’d spent mending injuries from hunting here at Bobby’s, with Dean his ever-faithful shadow, John knew where every one of the three well-stocked first aid kits could be found. He retrieved the one from under the sink in the upstairs bathroom, perching himself on the foot of Sam’s bed again as he threaded the needle.

“You told us how you escaped,” John glanced at Sam as he worried the bandages loose and let the bloody gauze spool on the bedspread. “What about before that?”

“You want to know what Lilith did to me.” Sam said, bluntly, and the way he didn’t hedge around the subject caught John off guard.

“I guess I do.”

“No.” Sam’s voice had gone taut again. “You don’t.”

And from the sudden steel in Sam’s eyes, a veritable door slamming shut on some horrific memory, John knew better than to press the subject. He took Sam’s wrist in one hand, pulling it gently out from his body, and noticing as he did how the column of Sam’s neck dampened with sweat and the fear returned to the lines of his face.

“Sam.” John said. “Don’t look.”

Sam turned his head away, staring determinedly at the other bed, as John started the precise and meticulous task of stitching the laid-open halves of skin together. He felt, with small rivulets of Sam’s blood twining under his fingers, regret; righteous anger. And then, the compulsion to ask, “So, Dean traded the Colt for your life.”

Sam flinched, and John almost stabbed the needle into his arm.

“Dammit, Sam!” He swore, gripping Sam’s trembling arm steady. He looked up at him, at Sam’s fixated stare and then, slowly, his eyes sliding shut.

“He shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“Your life means more to him than a gun.” John said; nevermind that that gun had been their only concrete hope of stopping Lilith. Sometime, after the relief of having Dean and Sam, _and Sam_ , home, had faded, John would be angry. Right now he was resigned. And hoping, on some level, to stay that way.

Sam seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “You needed that gun to stop Lilith. It was your only chance.”

“We’ll find another way. Improvise.”

The smile Sam turned him was wry, without any real trace of humor. “Thought we weren’t going to lie to each other anymore.”

John finished the stitches on Sam’s right arm, snipped the flossy thread and re-bandaged the wound. “Trust me, Sam. We’ll figure this out.”

Sam didn’t reply.

John stitched the other gash in silence, just the sounds of their breaths and Dean’s soft snoring filling the room, and when John was finished he stood, patting Sam’s knee. “Get some rest. You need it.”

Sam started to sit up, rolling toward the edge of the bed, bringing the pillow close to his body with one arm. It took John a second to realize where this was headed, and he caught Sam’s shoulder, pushing him back down.

“No. You sleep _in the bed_ , Sam.”

Sam looked up at him through a messy crossfire of bangs, and then he obediently laid back down. No protest, no arguing.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, John wondered if they were losing him already.

The kitchen, when he stepped into it, smelled like tomato-rice soup and grilled cheese. Mary was helming the stove, stirring a massive pot full of thick red liquid that smelled so richly sweet and delicious, it made John’s mouth water.

“Need a taste-tester?” He asked, resting his hands on her shoulders.

She looked back at him, sadness masking her eyes. “How are the boys?”

“Dean was asleep when I left. Sam, he…” John hunted for words. “He’s different, Mare. Scarred. You can see it in the kid’s eyes.”

He felt Mary’s breath catch beneath her ribs, a sensation that traveled up to where his hands touched her, and then she leaned away from him. “I’ll try to assess him, find out exactly what we’re dealing with after he’s gotten some rest and some food in him.”

The back door opened and Bobby stomped in to join them, refitting his faithful trucker’s cap to his head. “Got the sparkplugs put back. Should have both those cars in workin’ order before long.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” John sighed. “This isn’t gonna be easy. But being out here gives us time to figure things out.”

“Can’t avoid the Pits forever, John.” Bobby said. “Even _I_ gotta make a livin’, and sometimes that means bettin’ on somethin’ a few towns over.”

“We’ll let sleeping dogs lie, for now.” John rubbed the side of his neck. “Until Sam and Dean are back on their feet, everything else stops.”

Mary ladled a generous helping of soup into a bowl. “I agree.”

“Your stompin’ grounds, it’s your call.” Bobby deferred grumpily.

“Then let’s just see what happens over the next few days. Don’t push either of them, don’t let it turn into a fight. Agreed?” John glanced between the two of them, and they both nodded. “All right, then. Mind if I have a bowl of soup, Mary?”

And then Sam started screaming.

 

-X-

 

Nothing was the same.

Dean wasn’t really sure why he’d ever thought it would be.

It started Day One, when Dean was brutally awakened from sleep by the sound of Sam’s pained, panicked cries. He was floundering out of his bed and moving across the room to Sam’s before he was even fully awake, pinning Sam down by his shoulders with, “Sam, hey, wake up, man! Sammy!” falling from his lips like a prayer, a chant, a plea. But it was almost a full minute before Sam dragged himself to wakefulness, out of his nightmares, his white shirt grimy with sweat and mud and his eyes wide.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, man, you good?”

“Guh, I thought I was…” Sam looked around with confusion evident in his eyes. He didn’t need to finish the sentence, the meaning ringing loud and clear.

“You’re home, Sam. We got you out.”

“Yeah.” Sam ran an unsteady hand back through his hair. “Yeah, okay, I—okay. You’re sure?”

Dean felt a punch to the gut. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Sam nodded, accepting that but maybe not believing it, not entirely. “Then I guess I should—sorry. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“Don’t worry about.” Dean clapped him gently on the shoulder. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, ’m’fine.”

 _Fine_ was about the biggest lie either of them knew; _fine_ covered a multitude of sins, a multitude of painful things that couldn’t be voiced or worded or understood.

And _fine_ was something you didn’t question.

“All right, lie back down.” Dean said. “Try and get some decent sleep this time.”

“Okay, sure.” Sam fell back into the mattress and curled on his side, but before Dean walked away he heard something rustling under Sam’s breath: a word he couldn’t make out. Something he didn’t understand.

“Sam?”

No reply.

Unsettled, Dean went back to his own bed, and when John and Bobby appeared in the doorway a minute later he told them the same thing Sam had told him, the same filthy white lie: “ _He’s fine_.”

And that became the pattern; day after day, resting, recovering their strength, with Sam flailing awake at any given hour, day or night, soaked in sweat and gasping, heaving for breath or heaving up bile. It didn’t take Dean long to realize that they hadn’t saved him; or, at least, hadn’t saved him in time.

Sam was home, but he’d brought Lilith’s cage like a turtle shell on his back, something his brain retreated into every time he fell asleep. It almost made Dean feel guilty for being the one to shirk his nightmares; for the first time since May, he was sleeping straight through.

Straight through, until he’d be ripped out of slumber by another of Sam’s screams, his half-jolting breaths. One night, he was awakened by Sam urgently shaking his shoulder. “Dean. _Dean_.”

“Wha’—?” Dean flipped over, rubbing the back of his hand over one sleepy eye. “What, Sam?”

“I can’t sleep, there’s too much noise.”

The only noise Dean could hear was the window fan whirring, and that was muffled, barely any sound at all. He was about to tell Sam to cowboy up and go back to bed, until he noticed the frenetic light in Sam’s eyes, the way his fingers were twisting Dean’s blanket into hilly knots, and a feeling of weary incapability spilled through him.

“Dude, just turn the fan off and go back to sleep.”

Sam sat down on the foot of the bed, then fell flat on his back and didn’t move again. Dean stretched out until his toes crammed Sam’s hip. “Dude, _in your own bed_.”

When Sam didn’t respond, Dean rolled his eyes, flipped over and tried to fall back asleep, himself.

Mostly, with his strength returning, Dean felt helpless; he couldn’t fight this battle beside Sam, couldn’t pull him out of his Pit inside his own head. Sam was overrun by nightmares so vivid they came with taste, touch, smell, sound. Sometimes he’d check out in the middle of eating, or halfway through a conversation, his eyes riveting on something none of them could see, and he’d twitch his body away from imagined blows.

At times like that, Dean had to bring him back from some place deeper than the rattle of keys had ever sent him; because this time, he had a hair trigger. A flash of gold light across Mary’s hair; the sight of any weapon in the house. Crowbars. Heat.

The one time Dean accidentally splashed hot coffee on Sam, he wanted to kick himself. The kid looked _betrayed_.

And Sam never breathed a word of it to anyone; always apologizing, backpedaling over his own fear. And every night that Dean had to tell him, _You’re here, it’s fine, we’re fine, Sam_ , _trust me_ , Sam would fall back to sleep with that same indecipherable word stammering between his clenched teeth; and he’d shiver his way into another restless few hours trapped in with his memories.

“I shoulda gone after him sooner.”

Dean sat at Bobby’s kitchen table, elbows, arms resting on the chipped mint-green wood, hands clasped. Mary was at the stove making sewerlid, a mixture of eggs, sausage, green peppers and onions, something Ellen had served up faithfully every Sunday for the seven years they’d all lived together in New York.

The smell of it, right now, made Dean’s stomach turn, like most food did ever since Lilith had torn into him; but Mary had woken him up with the sun and insisted he eat something. So he ruminated, and she made food. And his mind, like always, found its way back to the most pressing issue at hand: _Sam_.                                                                                                                          

Mary glanced back at him, days of tiredness in her eyes. “Sweetheart, you know that’s not true. You didn’t know how to help Sam before you talked to Bobby. Things could’ve been so much worse.”

“How?” Dean asked, genuinely curious, and discouraged. He carded a hand back through his bristly hair. “How could this possibly get worse? I mean, have you seen him? The kid’s afraid of his own damn shadow all over again.”

“You’re both alive.” Mary said firmly. “As far as I’m concerned, Dean, that’s a step in the right direction.” She spooned sewerlid onto a plate and joined him at the table, setting the food in front of him. “There’s always something to be thankful for.”

“Would’ve been a better idea to blow Lilith’s brains all over the wall.” Dean grumbled, stabbing his fork moodily through the eggs and fishing out the green peppers.

“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you.” Mary said severely. “I may not be as invested in the fighting circuit as the rest of you, but I know a dangerous woman when I see one, and I know you never would have made it home if you’d pulled that trigger.”

“So?”

Mary drew the chair out and sat across from him. “This isn’t the end of something, Dean. Sam’s traumatized, and he _needs_ you.”

Dean swept the plate to one side and crossed his arms on the table again. “What if I can’t help him? Huh? What if I can’t do a damn thing to save him this time, mom? What am I supposed to do?”

Mary reached over and rested her hand on hiswrist. “Love him through it.”

The sound of padding footsteps broke them apart and Sam walked in, yawning, droopy-eyed sleepy and shaking his hair out of his face. Dean straightened up, instantly alert, watching him.

“Hey.” Sam mumbled, stopping in the doorway.

“Hey, yourself.” Dean flicked a green pepper at him. “Breakfast’s ready.”

“Okay.” Sam ignored the sewerlid, walked to the sink and filled a glass with water, sipping it, staring out the window.

Dean and Mary exchanged a glance, the first shivers of warning starting in Dean’s damaged belly. “Sammy, you good?”

Sam startled slightly. “What? Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You’re lookin’ a little spacey over there.”

“Just daydreaming, I guess.” Sam plastered on a smile that wasn’t halfway convincing. “Did you say something?”

Proving Dean’s point, innocently. “Nah. You hungry?”

“Not really, thanks.”

“Why don’t you sit with us, Sam?” Mary nodded to the empty chair at the head of the table, and Dean saw Sam’s broad shoulders grow tight, his posture hunching until he seemed half his height. His eyes followed the glimmers of golden-yellow as the wind through the open window stirred Mary’s hair.

“No, I’m…I’m good over here.”

 _Association_. That was what Mary had called it on Day Two, when she’d assessed Sam from a distance as he moved through the motions, interacting with John, Bobby, and Dean. Sam associated her with Lilith, because of her appearance. So she kept her distant, except on mornings like this one, when interaction was unavoidable.

Sam cleared his throat. “Where’s John?”

“Still asleep.” Mary said. “Bobby’s outside. It’s just the three of us.”

Sam rubbed his arm, looking away, and Dean wanted to smack his plate into the wall. It chafed bitterly against him that every step of progress they’d made in the last eight months seemed to have vanished, and then some. Sam was backsliding, trapped into his own horrors.

But he wasn’t talking; wasn’t opening up. A lockbox of secrets and waking nightmares, and Dean didn’t even have a key. Didn’t know how to approach him, how to talk to him; because Sam was fear wrapped in skin and gunpowder with that hair trigger and if one thing went wrong, his backsliding could turn into an outright plunge into something so dark and deep, there’d be no hope of pulling him out again.

Two months had shifted the balance, left them reeling.

“So, um, what are we doing today?” Sam asked, still looking away.

“Same thing we did yesterday: house arrest and nothing.” Dean wrinkled his face as he brought the plate of eggs close again; he’d spent days barfing blood into the toilet bowl and felt like there was still some left in there, souring the back of his throat. The memory of the pain alone was enough to bring a surge of foamy bile gumming the back of his jaw; he’d literally felt something instead of him tearing apart one jagged crease at a time when Lilith’s power had touched him; and then she’d warped him back together.

Sometimes, before, he’d joked with Sam about how they were sparring so hard they’d rearranged each other’s insides. But now that he knew the actual feeling, there was no comparison. Punches to the solar plexus were butterfly kisses to that. They were _nothing_.

And Lilith could do that with her _mind_.

Dean rubbed his forehead with slow circles of his fingertips, his guts constricting; if there was one thing he hated worse than being kept in the dark about something, it was knowing something _else_ , something that didn’t bode well for him, or for his family. Being made aware of what demons were, really, didn’t make them any less dangerous. If anything, it made him that much more cautious.

Monsters were one thing; deteriorations of a bloodline, for the most part, variances of inner-species evolution that came off worse for it. Bowed over, twisted, hideous by human standards; blights on the face of the earth.

These demons were different, more powerful. Taking Dean back, reminding him of Portal, North Dakota, where Jo had hinted that maybe Dean would rather not know what Sam was. Maybe they were all better off not knowing anything about anything at all, about Sam, demons, monsters—because in the end, knowing didn’t change anything. They were all powerless, when it came down to it.

Dean glanced at Sam, then shoved his chair back. “Thanks for breakfast, mom.”

“You didn’t eat any of it.” Mary pointed out wryly.

“Lost my appetite.” Dean headed up stairs, slammed the guest room door shut and settled with his back to the headboard of the bed, pulling his guitar onto his lap. Squeezing his eyes shut, he let his fingers find whatever chords they wanted, playing by ear and by heart.

Drowning in the tricky tempo of _Dust in the Wind_ , Dean didn’t hear the door open, cracking one eye by a fraction when bedsprings creaked. Sam sat Indian-style on the other bed, his eyes fixed on Dean, watching him play.

Quirking a benevolent grin, Dean slid back into the music, half-focusing on Sam. Feeling each strum of the music slowly bridging the silence, weaving unspoken thoughts together. Making sense, when nothing else did.

When Dean plucked the last chords, Sam shifted his feet onto the floor and leaned his elbows on his knees. “You remember how to play _Country Roads_ , right?”

“Yup.” Dean hummed to find the tune, his fingers catching up. He sang along, this time, and while Sam stayed silent, his eyes were focused, present and attuned to the music instead of buried in his memories.

It was a start.

But there was the way Sam went suddenly vacant and eerily still halfway through, to remind them both that things weren’t anywhere close to all right.

 

-X-

 

Sam picked.

At everything.

At the blanket on his bed before he succumbed to sleep at night, at the food they put in front of him, at his knees, scabs, scars.

It was Bobby who told Dean that the radio station wasn’t working; when Dean flipped through, he realized that the waves had turned to a white wall of static. Projected static, Bobby said, something that masked anything that was broadcasted.

Turning their leverage on its head.

Not that it mattered, not now; they had Sam, and they didn’t have the Colt, and everything else in between tended to melt gray, and waxed insignificant. Which was just as well, John said; threatening to out the demons for under-the-table deals had been decent blackmail at the time, but it didn’t count for dollars to donuts when Lilith had the only weapon that could end her. Putting her on edge would just disadvantage them.

John seemed resigned; levelheaded, and more even-tempered than Dean had seen him in months. Aside from the time after Dean had gone two days without throwing up blood—when John cornered him at the base of the stairs, cuffed him on the throat and told him if he ever pulled a stunt like that Houdini act again, he’d have worse than demons to deal with—things were okay between them.

Sam picked, Dean tuned the radio, John and Mary shared a bed and Bobby worked tirelessly but with minimal grumbling to hold them all together.

Dean still found himself reaching for that empty space over his heart where his dogtags used to be, were _supposed_ to be. He thought Sam might notice, but Sam never said anything; Sam walked in a haze, in a fog, except for the cannon blasts of clarity that ripped holes in his retreat and brought him shouting awake, sitting up in his bed.

Sam never failed to have these dreams, and Dean never failed to be there, hauling himself tiredly from his own bed to push Sam back down and assure him that, _yes_ , this was real, and _no_ , Lilith wasn’t coming for him, Lusiver wasn’t coming. Azazel wasn’t coming. Whenever Sam would subside, Dean would find himself far from sleep.

 _Did we do this to him_? The thought rubbed raw at the back of his mind. _If we’d just kept him out the friggin’ Pits from the jump—_

Then they never would’ve kept him around so long.

Catch-twenty-two, chasing itself in circles.

It was all blistering, one infection oozing in with another, until the day Dean walked into the bathroom to find Sam sitting completely dressed under the spray of the shower, his back and shoulders pressed to the curve of the claw-footed tub, picking at the stitches on his arm.

Dean cussed, feet slipping on the damp tiles, as he knelt and shut the water off and grabbed Sam’s wrists. They were already oozing again, pinking scabs sloughing away to let fresh blood through.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean snarled.

“I don’t know.” Sam said, quietly, his gaze riveted unswervingly on his arms. “ _I don’t know_ , Dean.”

He said Dean’s name like a question, and an answer, and with confusion. Dean ducked his head, trying to catch Sam’s eyes, but Sam’s chin was tucked too far. Dean had a blurry, burning memory of Sam hitching him to his feet inside the demon’s compound, authority personified with a gun in its hand and a name: _Sam_.

Somewhere between now and then, a door had slammed and another had opened and all that was coming out was pain and anger and something that made Dean want to grab Sam and shake him. Shake him awake.

“You can’t keep doin’ this to yourself, Sam.” He said, quietly, thumbs pressing into the oozing white-edged holes in Sam’s scabs.

Sam’s hair was soaked, water dripping from the tip of his nose. “What am I doing?” His voice was flat, not an ounce of inflection; questioning himself.

“Letting Lilith kill you, that’s what.” Dean muttered. He grabbed one of Bobby’s stained, threadbare towels off the wrought-iron rack beside the sink, swiping the blood off Sam’s arms. “Quit playing with your stitches, man. You need time to heal.”

“You don’t heal from this, Dean.” Sam said softly. “After what happened—”

“All right, that’s enough. You can knock off the _end of the world_ speech, ’cause that’s not gonna happen.” Dean leaned one arm along the side of the tub and pointed to himself. “ _I’m_ not gonna let it happen.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because I fucking promised I was gonna watch your ass, you _pain-in-the-ass_ , and you’re sure as hell not making my job any easier!”

Sam didn’t flinch, staring at his hands in his lap. “You’ve done enough, Dean.”

Dean was snorting with anger. “Is that right?”

“You got me out. That’s more than I—”

“More than you _what_? Huh? More than you _hoped_ for? More than you thought I was gonna do?” Dean tugged his hands back through his hair. “Geeze, Sam. I let you rot in there for two months, two whole _freaking_ months. You think that was easy? You think that wasn’t killing me every single damn day?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Well, none of this is your fault, either. You hear me? This is _not your fault_.” When silence, swollen and hot, filled in after his words, Dean dropped his back to the wall beside the tub and slid until he was sitting. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam let out a slow breath, blowing water from his top lip. “I don’t blame you.”

“Maybe that’s your problem right there, pal.” Dean smiled humorlessly, tongue painting his lower lip as he linked his arms loosely around his knees.

“I don’t mean for…what happened to me. I mean for the Pits.”

The change in subject left Dean with mental whiplash and a lace of frosty unhappiness swirling through his head. “Do we really need to talk about this again? I mean, seriously? It’s water under the bridge. You’re out. Can we just move on and stop beating a dead horse?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“ _Yeah, okay_.” Dean mimed him dramatically, thumping his head against the wall. “Pain in the ass.”

Sam snorted. “Ass for brains.”

Water kept dripping from his hair.

 

-X-

 

When Sam surfaced from a nightmare thrashing his covers off, Dean wasn’t sure he even had the willpower to get out of bed this time.

He rolled onto his elbow, swiping a hand over his eyes, and realizing belatedly that the bedroom door was already open. He jackknifed up, clicking on the rust-red bedside lamp; the dull yellow glow fell through the brown-whorled lampshade and cast light over John, one knee depressing the mattress by Sam’s leg. Sam was sprawled on his elbows, legs half-cocked toward his chest, eyes wide and expression mistrustful. His heavy breathing moved the bed.

“Easy, Sam, just me.” John murmured. “Heard you moving around.”

“Sorry.” Sam’s tone turned the apology into something else, final and fleeting, and he looked away, running a hand through his hair.

“Nothing to apologize for.” John laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it. “Must’ve been a hell of a dream.”

“It’s all hell.” Sam rolled onto his side, and Dean heard him sigh out that word, some foreign language, and he started repeating it, over and over; then there was the scrape of his fingernails picking at the bedspread. Then the twitching.

John got to his feet. “If you need anything, just call me.”

“Okay.” Sam’s most powerful word. _Okay_.

Dean flicked the light off and dropped onto his back, shoving his hand into his hair and letting it rest there, warming cold fingertips but doing nothing for the clammy sweat breaking out on his palms.

It was like sharing a room with a prisoner of war; Mary called it Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Dean wasn’t sure that covered it; didn’t cover it when a mutated freak of nature made you their bitch, over and over again, for the sole purpose of finding out exactly what your weaknesses were. Didn’t cover it when you’d been the punching bag of monsters for two months, expected to fight back.

And Lilith had painted Sam as defiant to the last man, dukes up, Winchester pride. It wasn’t until he’d been home, someplace safe, that he’d let his walls come down, revealing something blistered and bruised and bleeding underneath the guise of sharp corners and battle-strength.

He was falling apart, and Dean’s resolve was crumbling with him. A few weeks out, and Sam wasn’t getting better; if anything, he was worse.

Dean rolled over, grabbed his guitar, tried and failed for the next half hour to actually get into the rhythm of playing; his fingers wouldn’t conform to the strings right, not even to play _Hey Jude_ , and Dean finally gave up, knocking his fist lightly on the wooden body.

“Keep playing?” Sam’s soft voice startled him, pitching the words into a question. Dean ducked his head and picked up where he’d left off, halfway through the song, ignoring how crappy he sounded because he could still hear Sam whispering to himself, could see him fumbling under the covers, until eventually he sank into stillness, his breaths deepening.

“I’ll be damned.” Dean murmured, playing through the end of Tom Petty’s _Free Falling_ , and when he stopped this time there was no protest from Sam.

Dean leaned the guitar against his pillow, slid off the bed and let himself out, knowing with a crunch of frustration that if Sam started screaming, it didn’t matter where Dean went; he’d still hear him.

Downstairs, he was surprised to find John reading by the light from Bobby’s old lantern, sitting at the kitchen table. By force of habit, Dean hunted down and poured himself a bowl of dry Cheerios, and sat in the chair across from him. When John didn’t look up from his book, Dean flicked a Cheerio into his lap, earning himself a withering glare.

“Just like old times, huh?” Dean asked cheekily, dropping a few stale bites of cereal into his mouth.

“Hardly,” John rumbled, looking back at the book.

“Yeah, okay, everything’s crap right now.” Dean allowed, sliding the bowl toward him. “Cheerios?”

“Not exactly the right kind of toast for the occasion, but I’ll take what I can get.” John scooped up a handful and slid them onto his tongue, one-by-one, as he read; Dean watched the shadowy crease between John’s eyes growing deeper by the minute.

“Whoo, man, something musta pissed you off.” He observed.

“You could say that.” John’s eyes were glued to the page, but for the first time Dean noticed he wasn’t reading; cheek propped on his fist, John was just staring, his gazed fixed on a single point.

“What, did they kill off the main love interest?” Dean craned his head for a better look at whatever John was reading. “What is that, anyway?”

“Dictionary.” John said. “That word Sam was repeating, the one you told me he says every time he has a nightmare. I got curious. Decided to look it up.”

“You could tell what he was saying?” Against his better judgment, Dean had to admit he was impressed.

“Phonetics.” John shook his head. “There’s only word I could find that’s a near-perfect match. It’s Basque, a language that originated in provinces of Spain and France.” John tapped a finger on the dictionary page. “A lot of monsters come out of that area, forest-dwellers, mostly. Sam must’ve picked it up from a cellmate while the demons had ’im,” John’s tone was flat, aged with exhaustion.

“Okay?” Dean said around a mouthful of Cheerios. “What does it mean?”

John spun the book around and pushed it toward him, his hand never leaving the page. “The word is _Erruki_. It means mercy.” He met Dean’s eyes in the dying light of the lantern. “Sam is begging for mercy.”

For a heartbeat and a half, Dean felt nothing.

And then, everything.

He wasn’t aware he was moving, wasn’t conscious of his own feet carrying him out the door until he was laying his punches into the nearest beater car because if it wasn’t that, it would be Bobby’s table, Bobby’s wall, _Lilith_ , he wanted to find her, wrap his hands around her throat, choke the life out of her with his own strength.

Dean pounded and dented in and waled on the car until blood was bracketed across his knuckles and only then did he force himself to stop, massaging one hand with the other, chips of paint and slivers of metal embedded into his skin. And then with one last violent blow that shattered the window of the car, Dean dropped down on his knees, leaning his arms against the door and resting his forehead against his fists.

_Mercy._

_Mercy_.

Sam, begging for mercy before sleep, before nightmares, before God and anything else that was listening. Sam, who’d taken a thousand hits in forty-eight Pit fights and never complained beyond the occasional grunt of pain; pleading for it to stop.

Dean rolled himself over, his back against the front tire, staring up at the stars with his ruined knuckles pressed into the gravel.

“Sammy, I’m sorry.”

When the yelling started again, rattling the windowpane high overhead, Dean squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, lips tugging back, slamming his head against the tire hard enough to send a bolt of pain into his skull.

 _Erruki_.

 _Erruki_.

 


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Four: Back In

 

            South Dakota summers weren’t the same as Kansas summers.

            They baked warm, sometimes, but just as often there would be a downspurt of cold Canadian air that called for jackets. Those dramatic shifts in temperature often brought on violent storms that barred them all inside.

            Close quarters was not an easy thing for any of them; Dean almost felt sorry for Bobby, who’d carried a glorified view of family life and company, and had the most dysfunctional group of people dropped into his lap at the darkest point of their lives. Days when they were all trapped under the same roof became the days they all dreaded, because tempers collided like logs swirling downstream, out-of-control, sending vitriol sprays jetting out from wherever they touched.

            Dean learned to avoid John on trapped days, and John and Bobby had their separate floors of the house to rule, when every conversation short-circuited into an argument. Mary was caught trying to keep the peace while her instinct was to join in the debate with a vengeance, and Sam folded himself onto the nearest stable surface and didn’t say much of anything.

            None of them mentioned how the stock in the refrigerator was running low, and when Dean checked Bobby’s subterranean freezer in the sound-proofed basement, he found the supplies in there were rapidly depleting, too.

            No Handlers were coming by to trade, to buy or sell; Bobby’s shed out back was barren, mocking in its silence, and with every day that passed Dean felt the gnawing sense of trepidation that they were about to be right back where they started: no food, no money, and no monster to carry them through the fights.

            There would’ve been enough food to last Bobby alone for months; but with four extra mouths to feed, that counted for nothing. Their presence in his life was ripping his routine right out from under him, and Bobby endured it with minimal complaint, because Dean knew that underneath his gruff exterior and fighting words, and the way he challenged everything they said or did, Bobby loved them; loved all of them, even John when he was a pain in the ass, and Sam with all his flaws and the fact that he was _Faceless_ and couldn’t carry his own weight anymore.

            It was Dean who felt like his hold was slipping; Dean whose reality had been turned upside-down. From the inside, watching, his family was falling apart. Dissolving into microburst confrontations because, really, what else was left to keep their blood flowing? They were in stasis, frozen deep in the sedentary grip of isolation in Sioux Falls, and with a punch of anger to the gut Dean realized he’d almost prefer to be back out on the circuit, at this point. Toe-to-toe with the demons; challenging Lilith on her own hunting grounds.

            It was where he belonged, where he had to go in order to pay his dues. Because no one else was going to do it; because Gordon Walker had forty-nine notches in his belt and if he made it to the Leagues, it would be for power and prestige and money. Not to tear a hole in Lilith’s world; not to prove a point.

            Not to prove _Dean’s_ point: you screwed with Sam, with any of the Winchesters, and you signed away your own life.

            But Dean was just as rooted as the rest of them; because even if he’d had the Colt, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the hollow shell that was Sam.

            Dean took to sacking out on the floor by the foot of Sam’s bed, because it made getting to him easier during a nightmare. The first time Sam’s choppy movements thumped the loose baseboard against his back, Dean would roll over upright, move to the bedside on his knees and rest a hand over Sam’s heart, feeling the hysterical attempts it made to vacate his chest.

            On a good night, that touch alone would be enough to quiet Sam, eventually; his hand would find Dean’s wrist, squeeze hard enough to hurt, then slowly release as he slid past the nightmare and into deeper sleep.

            Sam didn’t have many good nights.

            Bad nights, which were more nights than Dean really cared to count, he would stir fitfully with punctuated, painful breaths like he could still feel Lusiver’s knife or that braided, barbed whip peeling his skin off in strips. Those were the nights when Dean would have to haul himself onto the edge of the bed and talk Sam back to the world of awake, and Sam would always ask, _Real?_

Dean was starting to doubt himself when he’d reply, _Yeah, Sam, it’s real_. He started to doubt which of them was having a worse nightmare.

            After one particularly violent dream that left Sam shaking, his hair smeared wetly against his forehead, Dean scooted over with his elbow on Sam’s pillow when Sam rolled over to face the wall. Back to back, Dean slouching forward, wrists on knees, they didn’t say anything for several long minutes.

            “Man, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Dean addressed the empty void of the room, but he knew Sam was listening. “Things were supposed to go back to normal when we got you out.”

            He felt Sam take a shuddering breath. “’M’sorry, Dean.”

            “It’s not your fault, dude. It’s not your _friggin_ ’ fault, it’s Lilith’s. I’m gonna tear that bitch in half.”

            “You can’t. Can’t shoot her, can’t stop her. She’ll win, Dean, because she _always_ wins. That’s the only thing she knows how to do.” Sam’s voice was quiet, and Dean could hear him picking at the bedspread again.

            “Cut it out.” He elbowed Sam’s back, gently, and Sam stopped. “I’m not afraid of her. Bottom line, she’s just a supersized version of all the evil, crawly crap my dad taught me to hunt when I was a kid. That’s all demons are. And if they can bleed, then we can kill ’em. So that’s what we’re gonna do.”

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean.”

            “Yeah, we’ll see.” After a breach of silence, Dean cleared his throat. “I was kinda hopin’ you’d still have my back on this.”

            He felt it when Sam swallowed, a ripple moving down his spine. “I’m sorry.”

            It was a different _I’m sorry_ , this time. It was _I can’t do that_ , it was, _I’m not the person you remember_ ; more than that, _I’ve lost everything. There’s no one left here to help you_.

            And Dean realized that, somewhere along the way, he’d lost Sam.

 

-X-

 

            The noose of tension around Dean’s neck snapped tight that week.

            It was a consequence of everything: the arguments, the perpetual cabin fever, Sam’s nightmares and finally, the day Bobby’s antiquated suit of armor broke.

            Dean wouldn’t remember, by nightfall, how it happened; all he knew from the jump was being jolted violently awake by a resounding crashing like a china cabinet full of dishes spilling onto the floor. He tossed his blanket off and rubbed morning-shy eyes on his way through the door and down the stairs.

            The suit of armor was from the Dark Ages, tarnished and uniform, and it had been standing sentry by the front door since Dean had been old enough to cultivate conscious memories; he remembered being carried in on John’s shoulder after a long, sweltering day of summer training and nearly panicking at the sight of the beaked helmet, certain something was lurking just inside the house, waiting to attack them. It had taken John half an hour of back-rubbing and a gentle mantra of, “You’re all right, Dean, it’s not gonna hurt ya, it’s just a suit of armor,” before Dean had been quieted enough to acquiesce going indoors.

 That timeless gargoyle watchman was scattered now in bruised pieces all over the foyer, with Sam standing in the middle of it all, looking like he wasn’t sure exactly where he was or how he’d gotten there.

            “What in the name of God—?” Bobby stomped in, drying his hands on a towel, and that seemed to snap Sam to attention.

            “I’m sorry, Bobby, I’m sorry…” He got down on his hands and knees and started scooping belted arm cuffs toward his chest. “I just bumped into it, sorry, I—”

            “It’s just a thing, son.” Bobby crouched beside Sam, stalling his hand in mid-reach. “You can replace just about any-damn-thing. People, on the other hand, the good ones only come once in a blue moon.”

            Dean crossed his arms on the railing of the stairs and rested his chin on them, watching as Sam slowly withdrew his hand from Bobby’s grasp. “I don’t know if I’m one of your good ones, Bobby. Lilith must’ve taken me for a reason.”

            And right then, it snapped: everything, all that he’d been bottling up, drowning, choking down, and it erupted. Dean almost slid down the stairs, winging around the banister and grabbing Sam’s elbow, hauling him to his feet.

            “You. Me. Outside. _Now_.”

            He led the way out the front, the reddish haze of fury in his eyes coloring the cloudless sky a deep mauve. He was aware of Sam on his heels, with the kind of razor clarity of rage that he was used to feeling toward _John_.

            He wound his way deeper into the sea of cars, Sam keeping pace behind him, until the house was lost somewhere out on the acres, and Dean turned to Sam.

            “This stops. All of it. Right here, right now.”

            “Dean, what are you _talking_ about?” Sam’s face was pinched with confusion.

            “I’m talking about _you_ , Sam!” Dean’s voice arched louder. “I’m talking about the friggin’ apologies, and the way you blame yourself for every damn thing that went wrong. It wasn’t your fault. You hear me? It _wasn’t your fault_.”

            Sam regarded him in silence, his expression crunching with emotion, his eyes growing wet. “I know that.”

            “Then quit playing the martyr, for God’s sake! It’s like living with a ghost in the house, you don’t eat, you barely sleep—you’re not all there, man.”

            Spinning Sam’s words from Portal, turning them back on him. Sam twitched, slightly, like he understood as much. Then he said, simply, “Okay.”

            Dean felt something cascade over him that wasn’t resignation, wasn’t winning. It was the perilous icy calm before the storm. “Okay, _what_?”

            “Okay, I’ll try to do better. I’ll try not to wake you up anymore, I’ll eat, whatever you want me to do.”

            Dean gave Sam a flat-handed shove to the chest, slamming him against the nearest car door. “That’s what I’m freaking _talking_ about! Don’t do this because I’m asking you too, dammit, do it because it’s killing you! Fight back!”

            “I can’t.”

            Dean shoved him again, left his hands on Sam’s chest this time, fisting in the front of his shirt. “Yeah, you can. I know you, Sammy, and this isn’t _you_. This is Lilith, man, she’s crawling inside you. She’s taking you down to studs and you’re not even tryin’ to help yourself.”

            “Because I _can’t_.”

            “Bull!”

            “Dean. _I can’t_.” Sam latched onto Dean’s wrists, detaching his hold, pushing his hands down to his sides. “I’m not what you think I am. I’m not _human_ , not with what I went through. I don’t—maybe I am Faceless, maybe I’m a freak, I dunno. But I _do_ know I’m not like you. I’m cursed.”

            “Just _shut up_!” Dean punched the rim of the window beside Sam’s head. “Quit saying that! You’re not _cursed_ , Sam.”

            “Then I’m a monster. I’m not really seeing the difference, at this point.”

            “Son of a bitch, Sam. You’re not dying, you’re already dead.” Dean pulled his hand back, stepped away. “And maybe you’re right, y’know, maybe I can’t help you. ’Cause you don’t want my help, man.” He held up both hands disarmingly. “Hey, I get it. A few weeks with the demons force-feeding you their elitist crap, and you forget everything we worked out. No, that’s…awesome.” He turned his back, walked away.

            The surprise almost tipped Dean off balance when Sam grabbed a fistful of skin and sleeve on his left arm and whipped him around. “You know what? _You can go to hell,_ Dean! You don’t know what happened out there!” Sam’s voice shot through a few octaves, his eyes spitting sparks.

            “You’re right, I don’t, ’cause you’re burying this crap so deep you’re digging your own grave, Sam!” Dean gestured, talking with his hands in broad sweeps. “I thought we were supposed to take this crap and figure it out _together_. Spirit and guts, right?

            “You don’t understand what that place was like. It was _hell_.”

            “And, what, life was a bed of roses back in Kansas? I almost lost my _mind_ trying to find a way to get you back! So what if I didn’t have Lilith’s hand jammed down my throat every day? I would’ve taken that bitch’s beatings if I could’ve gotten between her and you. I screwed up, I dropped the ball, and now you’re barely treading water. How the hell is that _fair_?”

            “Who said anything about fair? That’s now how demons work. And we’re lucky we got out alive.”

            Dean swiped his tongue across his lips, looking away, toward the house; deep blue clouds were rolling in from the west, bringing a low tumble of thunder rolling across the empty South Dakota plain.

            “Did we? Get out alive?”

            Sam’s eyes narrowed fiercely, deliberately, and he moved into Dean’s path. “Fight me.”

            Dean blinked. “ _What_?”

            “I said, _fight me,_ Dean!” Sam spread his arms wide. “You want to know what I’ve been through? Then _come on_!”

            “Sam, I’m not gonna pound on you, okay, you just got back from Lilith’splayground. You’re still not up to snuff.”

            “I’ve fought worse than you when I felt worse than _this_.” When Dean didn’t move, biding his time, Sam’s mouth cut into a sudden, unexpected and ill-adopted sneer. “You’re a coward.”

            Dean launched himself forward, grabbing Sam by his collar and spinning him around, slamming him into the front fender of the nearest car. “ _Shut it, already, just shut the hell up_!”

            And Sam said, “About time.”

            When his fist sailed for Dean’s face, Dean ducked it, swiping Sam’s arm aside and jabbing a knee toward his gut. Sam blocked Dean’s leg with his, tripping him and sweeping around behind him, hooking Dean’s ankles and shoving him down chest-first on the hood of the car, torquing his arms behind his back.

            “Come on, man, are you really that rusty?” He taunted.

            Dean cussed, slamming his foot down on Sam’s and earning an undignified yelp of pain for his effort. He slithered one arm free and jammed his elbow into Sam’s gut, ripping loose and twisting around. Sam was almost straddling him on the fender, close enough to smell, sweat and bed-sheets and a few days dirty.

 Dean feinted a punch, let Sam catch it like Sam _always_ caught it, he was that fast; Dean brought his free hand up and tried to snap Sam’s hold with an elbow to the inner arm. Sam blocked that, too, trapping both of Dean’s hands. Dean heaved his weight in, catching Sam off guard, reeling him backwards.

And every sense of rhyme and reason fell away, fluidity and grace lost as Sam doubled himself over Dean’s back, hammered a knee into his stomach, and slammed him onto his side. They fell into a deadlock of wrestling, glancing nearly-painless blows, but not pulling; needing this, the thunderstorm of their blood and adrenaline, that forgotten crunch of bones against skin, painting pockmark bruises on their torsos, arms, legs.

Flipping each other, tussling in a mad haze of dry gravel dust and stunted grass kicked up by their flying feet. Dean fought just to _feel_ , to lay all of his troubles—anger, sorrow, regret, frustration, helplessness, hopelessness, _caring_ —into Sam. Sam absorbed it without question, trading back his own unspeakable sins— _giving up,_ laying down, guilt, mistrust, despair, and a bleak, broken kind of love that came out in every single strike of his fists on Dean’s body.

That, Dean realized in a dizzy whirlwind, was all they’d ever known as friends, companions, soldiers; as _brothers_ , if family was more than blood. Every single thing that mattered was spoken in silence or glances or, sometimes, if the need called for it, out loud; with violent shoves and knotting fists in each other’s jackets, shirts, forcing attention, claiming understanding.

But when it came down to it, this was the easiest thing to say; _I missed you_ , with Sam’s weight compressing Dean’s chest; _I’m sorry I let Lilith get her hands on you_ , a punch to the eye that gave Sam a shady welt on his cheekbone; _what’s the point of all this_ , when Sam crushed Dean’s face into the gravel, digging small flecks of it into his cheek.

Puffing out breath, Dean almost chuckled.

 _Surviving_. He flipped over, cracking his knee into Sam’s shoulder and bucking him off. In a second he had Sam pinned, one hand on his collarbone, the other on Sam’s half-cocked leg, holding him down. _We all survive because we need each other_.

Sam lay under him, staring up, the reflection of the blue dish of sky over their heads turning Sam’s eyes from hazel to almost a cobalt shade of their own. He breathed raggedly, mouth open. “Dean…?”

“Don’t space out on me.” Dean warned.

“I’m not…let me go.” Sam angled a blow for Dean’s face, but the awkward positioning took the edge off his strength, and Dean batted his fist down without any trouble at all. “Dean!”

Dean laughed, out loud this time, slapping Sam genially on the knee. “Gettin’ a little slow there, pal.”

Sam smiled, for the first time since he’d come home. “I don’t think so.”

Dean felt Sam’s foot nudge his armpit.

“Oh, _crap—_!”

Sam kicked Dean’s hold loose from his collarbone, sitting up in the same fluid motion and elbowing Dean hard in the chest. His weight surged over after, following through with the strike, nailing Dean down on his back and holding him there, bracing the bar of his arm over Dean’s throat.

“Pinned you, Dean.”

“I can see that, genius. Now get offa me!” Dean coughed.

“Nope.”

“Sam—!”

Sam stared down at him, intent, his eyes moving like he was solving a puzzle written out across Dean’s face. Uncomfortable, Dean squirmed.

“C’mon, man, this is awkward.”

Sam sat back on his heels, giving Dean the leverage to push himself upright. His eyes, guarded, almost mistrustful and adopting their normal hazel sheen, watched Dean. “You’re not going to let me go down quietly, are you?”

“Ah, Sammy, I’m not gonna let you go down at all. Thought you’d have that figured out by now.” Dean peered up at him, gauging his response. “Braniac.”

Sam twitched a smile. “Jerk,” then got to his feet. “Dean, how come—?”

“How come _what_?”

“How come you care this much? I mean, since day _one_ , you’ve been fighting John about this. Fighting every other Handler out there.” Sam shook his hair from his eyes, his expression a rictus of disbelief. “And for what? It’s not like I’m some big-shot monster. Hell, I got my ass kicked, _every single time_.”

“Sam.” Dean cut him off firmly. “Man, I don’t know _what_ you are. Human, monster, the friggin’ _Mothman_. All I know is, we’ve been at this for almost a year and you’ve never given me a single freakin’ reason to believe you’re one of those things my dad used to hunt. It’s DNA, it’s not who you are. Bottom line, as long as you’re with us, you’re family. The rest of it’s just a huge ball of semantics.”

Sam stared at him, the disbelief never leaving his expression, but Dean saw something cracking and falling to pieces behind his eyes.

Sam stretched a hand down to him, suddenly, and Dean accepted it with a certain amount of trepidation. Sam clapped him on the forearm and hauled him up in one mighty tug, steadying Dean with a firm grip on his sleeve once his feet were under him.

“Sammy, you good?” Dean asked.

Without a word, Sam boxed him into a hug.

Dean froze, arms at his sides, not sure at first that this wasn’t an attack of some sort; then, realizing it wasn’t, he couldn’t find a means to unstick himself. Even narrowed down and hollowed out from his stay with Lilith and his resultant lack of appetite, Sam had four inches on Dean, and a strong grip when it counted.

“Sam?” Dean put as much hinting into the word as he could. _Let go of me, you’re strangling me, and yeah, okay, I’ll give you a speech about family and stuff, but I draw the line at hugging._

Sam’s chin scraped Dean’s spine, his hair tickling the inside of Dean’s ear. “ _Thank you_.”

“Okay? You’re welcome, I guess.” Dean managed to slip an arm between them and give Sam’s stomach a shove. “Can’t breathe, Sam.”

“Right, right, sorry.” Sam pulled back, but he kept his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean had a sudden overwhelming sensation of being viewed as the center of somebody’s source of gravity; a revolving star.

“Sam—?” Dean prompted him again, feeling like a broken record.

Sam’s brows dipped with confusion, his gaze darting. “Wow. That felt good.”

“You take hugging way too seriously, dude.”

“No, not the—I mean the training.” Sam shook his hair back again. “Felt like old times, right? Wow,” His frown intensified. “That was…really awesome, actually.” And then his attention riveted, and he shifted his jaw, his expression blanking. “Dean, where are your dogtags?”

Dean blinked at him. “Sam. Seriously? What the hell?”  

“What do you mean—?”

“I haven’t had my tags since you got back!”

Sam stared at him. “You’re kidding me! How come I didn’t notice?” When Dean didn’t offer an explanation, Sam’s expression tipped into a dry smile. “You’re screwing with me, right?”

“I could ask you the same question, Mister Sunshine.”

            Sam laughed. “Not screwing around, Dean, I’m serious. What happened?”

            “Uh, Gordon Walker’s what friggin’ happened. After he almost blew a hole through dad’s liver, he—”  
            “Wait a second, dad got _shot_?”

            “ _Oh, you gotta be kidding me! Seriously_?”

            Sam gripped Dean’s shoulder again. “Okay. You gotta catch me up, Dean. Tell me…everything. Everything that happened after I left.” He hesitated, coming to attention suddenly, laying a fist against his gut. “On second thought? Food first. Answers later.”

            “You’re scaring the hell outta me, man.”

            “Yeah,” Sam’s voice went suddenly softer, reflective. “I was scaring the hell out of myself.” He rubbed his thumb across the cuts on his wrists, then seemed to shake it off. “I’m starving, seriously. Tell me Bobby’s got some real food.”

            In spite of himself, Dean grinned. “Oh, man, he’s got French Toast, spaghetti, ravioli…the works.”

            “Ravioli? What the hell is _that_?”

            “That, that right there, is blasphemy.” Dean cuffed Sam’s shoulder, pushing him toward the house. “Inside, let’s go. I’m not gonna tolerate your uncivilized eating habits, Sam. You’re gonna eat a bowl of ravioli and you’re gonna love it.”

            “Yeah, okay, sure.” Sam sounded skeptical, but amused, and that concerned Dean more than anything. It seemed impossible that Sam could go outside one person, timid and apologetic, and suddenly straighten up, gain height in confidence, return to the house a changed man; not only that, but with apparent gaps in his memory bank.

            The whole thing was unnerving.

            He let Sam go up the porch steps first, and was glad he did, because when Sam opened the door and saw Bobby, he launched at him with the kind of hug Dean wouldn’t have wanted himself caught in the middle of.

            “A little warnin’ might be nice, ya idjit!” Bobby barked as Sam clapped him solidly on the back. “What’s got you in a cuddly mood?”

            “Thanks for letting us stay here, Bobby.” Sam pulled back, keeping his hands on Bobby’s shoulders. “I don’t know why we’re here, instead of Lawrence, but I know you didn’t have to take us in. So, really, thanks. For everything.”

            “Try sendin’ a card next time,” Bobby groused, but Sam was already moving past him, to the fridge. He opened the door and nodded inside.

            “You mind if I—?”

            “Help yerself.” Bobby’s eyes were trained on Dean. “Got a minute, kid?”

            “Absolutely.” Dean followed him into the branching hallway that led to the stairs, out of earshot of Sam, and Bobby rounded him with a ferocious glint in his eyes.

            “You wanna tell me what the hell happened out there? Didja lobotomize that boy, or what? ’Cause that ain’t the same screws-loose basketcase I watched you haul out that door half an hour ago.”

            “Hey, I’m clueless too, Bobby.” Dean shrugged widely. “One second he’s scared, the next thing I know, he’s asking me to fight him. And now he’s—”

            “Can I heat up some of this beef stew?” Sam called.

            “ _Me casa es su casa_.” Bobby replied, and there was a beat of silence before Bobby rolled his eyes and amended, “My house is your house.”

            “’Kay, thanks,”

            “—he’s like a totally different person.” Dean finished. “Oh, yeah, and did I mention all that crap we told him about why we’re here and what happened with Gordon, none of that stuck?”

            “What, like he got his slate wiped?” Bobby demanded skeptically.

            “You got a better diagnosis?”

            There was a sudden, prolonged silence from the other room, followed by Sam’s audible, deep breaths. “Hey, Dean?”

            His tone was different, slightly curious, almost defenseless. With one last cock-eyed glance and a shrug at Bobby, Dean joined him in the kitchen. “What, am I missing the big feast, here?”

            Sam looked away from the microwave, the bowl inside making its slow, steady revolution, and he grinned. “Not really, I just wondered if you were hungry.”

            “Think I’m good.”

            Sam’s mouth tipped down at the corners. _You sure?_

            Dean rolled his eyes. _Yeah, Sam, I’m sure_.

            Sam carried his bowl to the table and started devouring, with just a hint of manners and all else banished for the sake of hunger. Dean gripped the back of the chair across from him, studying him, trying to parse out what was different, what had changed; why Sam was suddenly smiling, eating, acting like his old happy self.

            Sam glanced up at him through long lashes, then blinked. “Uh, Dean, why’re you staring at me? It’s kinda…creepin’ me out.”

            “Yeah, well, feeling’s mutual, pal.” Dean drew the chair out and sat across from him, and a second later Bobby joined them, taking post in the third seat at the head of the table with his arms folded over his broad belly.

            “Right.” Sam flicked a smile into his beef stew. “Hey, can you hand me that bread?” He nodded to the loaf on the counter and Dean reached back for it, passing it over. With a nod of thanks, Sam ripped into the bag and started sponging up the broth with two slices squeezed together. “So, what about Gordon?”

            Dean leaned his elbows on the table. “Look, I’m not keeping secrets from you, Sam, all right? I’ll bring you up to speed.” He let his tone hang open-ended, implying there was more to this, and Sam looked up questioningly. “But you gotta level with me, man. I wanna know where this whole new you came from. And don’t give me some crap about the fight changing you back. I know you better than that.”

            Sam watched him, equal parts amused and thoughtful, and then he set the bread down and crossed his arms on the table, mirroring Dean’s posture. “You’re right. I’m not a different person.” He slid a glance toward Bobby. “I mean, I really have—no freaking _clue_ what happened with Gordon. I don’t even know what day it is.” He pulled one of those infamous sheepish lopsided smiles. “And I’ve still got Lilith’s prison screaming in the back of my head.”

            “Okay, so, what changed?” Dean prompted.

            “I just decided that none of that crap matters.”

            Sam’s quiet honesty left Dean speechless. “Come again?” And when Sam didn’t answer immediately, Dean added, “You can’t just swing across the board like that, it’s totally friggin’ dysfunctional and it’s gonna bite you in the ass.”

            “Look, I’m not saying I can pretend it didn’t happen. I still hear things—I mean, the beep on the _microwave_ ,” Sam shook his head. “And the next thing I know I’m not sure whether _this_ is the dream I keep having, or if I’m just flashing back on Nashville.”

            “Sounds like a heavy load to be carryin’ around.” Bobby said with brusque sympathy, and Sam shrugged.

            “It’s not so bad. I just—for however long I’ve been back, I think I haven’t been trying to figure out what’s really real, or…what even matters. I just sort of let my head tell me that the important stuff was what I remembered, not what was happening right in front of my face.”

            “And—?” Dean drew the word out, still looking for a concrete conclusion.

            “And I was wrong.” Sam frowned. “What happened, happened. And, y’know, it wasn’t _pleasant_. It’s not something I can forget, and I still don’t want to talk about it. There’s still no way you could ever understand,” His eyes were apologetic, and full of conviction. “But I can’t let that stop me. I can’t let Lilith walk all over me when she’s not even _here_.” He gave his head a slight shake, ruffling his hair. “So, I’m gonna do this right.”

            “Yeah, but _why_?” Dean insisted, gesturing sharply with his hands. “What _made_ you change your mind?”

            “What you said back there, about how it didn’t matter what I was.” Sam’s eyes were wide, wet, and passionate. “Lilith told me about how she murdered my parents. Everyone I ever knew and, I guess, loved. She took everything else.” His voice was steely with resolve. “But this…you’re my family. All of you. You guys are mine, and you’re real, and I’m not gonna let her have you.”

            Silence hung in the wake of the words, and Dean realized this was a side of Sam he’d never dealt with before; this wasn’t a Sam who could be rattled by the stroke of keys, by the mealy-mouthed taunts of a demon. This was Sam with his feet planted in the swirling current, hardened by certainty, melted into something indestructible by his own sheer will.

            This was Sam, taking a stand against his past, deciding for himself that it didn’t matter half as much as his present or his future.

            “It’s gonna be a bumpy road between here and bein’ safe,” Bobby warned him. “Demons are gonna rain down fire on all our heads.”

            “So, let ’em come.” Sam said, his face masking into a flat expression of a challenge. “I could use a little action.”

            Parroting off Dean’s words from the cellblock in Nashville; Dean couldn’t staunch a grin.

            “I can get behind that.” He stretched.

            Sam smiled and went back to his beef stew, pacing himself this time. After several more bites, he looked up and swallowed. “What about Gordon?”

            Dean started on into the story, recapping everything for Sam that had happened at the homestead. Unlike the last time Dean had told this story, when Sam had picked and stared at the bedspread and nodded absently, now he was engaged. More often than not, forgetting to take a bite, or talking with his mouth full.

            Sam, Dean realized, was the best kind of audience, because on a good day no matter what you were talking about, he treated it like holy writ. Fiercely interested, asking all the right questions, keeping Dean as occupied into the telling process as Sam was into the listening process. Eventually, Bobby left them to it, with a cranky mumble about being a third wheel. Dean tossed an irreverent, “Hey, I love you, old man!” after him, earning a backlash of “ _Pound it up your ass, Romeo_ ,” that had Sam spitting beef stew back into the bowl and coughing violently against this elbow.

            When Dean reached the part of his story about John and Mary actually getting around to _kissing_ , Sam’s mouth dropped open, and then he cracked an incredulous grin. “Dude— _no_!”

            “Look me in my eyes and tell me I’m lying.” Dean kicked his feet up on Bobby’s abandoned chair. “They are full on lovey-dovey with each other. Except for the, uh, fights that they get into at least once a week.”

            “Wow.” Sam scoffed lightly. “I missed a lot.” He spooned up the rest of the ravioli that Dean had retrieved for him while he was explaining how Mary had threatened to castrate Gordon with a shotgun. “I’m sorry about Maggie, Dean. She sounds like a really decent girl.”

            “Only the good die young.” Dean tried to be flippant, shrugging it off, but some part of his hands remembered the cooling feeling of her skin, the sound of her death rattle still an echo in his ears. “Never got to pay her back for the Twinkies.”

            Sam’s forehead whorled with sadness. “Yeah.”

            Footsteps shuffled down the stairs, and Mary joined them, her sleepy eyes finding the three empty bowls in front of Sam, and widening.

            “Hey, Mary.” Sam greeted her almost nervously, rubbing his palms over the knees of his jeans.

            “I think I liked it a little better when you were calling me _mom_ ,” Mary teased gently, brushing his hair back from his ear. “What’s all this?”

            “Sam’s working crap out,” Dean replied proudly.

            Mary looked surprised, looked at Dean like she wanted an explanation, and Dean shook his head slightly. Retrieving a cup of coffee for herself, Mary let the subject slide with, “Do you mind if I join you?”

            “No, by all means.” Sam knocked Dean’s feet off the other chair, ignoring his protest, and pushed it out for her.

            “Thank you, sweetheart.” Mary lowered herself into the chair, wrapping her hands around the steaming mug. “What were you two talking about?”

            “Dean’s catching me up on everything.” Sam scraped ravioli sauce out of the bowl and licked his fork. “He just told me how you sent Gordon Walker running with his tail between his legs.”

            Mary looked a little mollified. “Well, his tail wasn’t tucked.”

            “But he was pissing himself.” Dean added.

            “Language—”

            “Mom, no offense, but I’ve heard you call Lilith a _bitch_ every other day for the last, I dunno, _month_?” Dean said. “You kinda don’t have a leg to stand on, here.”

            Mary regarded him with motherly disdain, and Sam hid a laugh by tipping his head down and studying his empty bowl.

            “You make an excellent point.” Mary said, finally, and Dean flashed her a megawatt grin.

            “So, you were saying that John got shot.” Sam stacked the bowls and took them to the sink. “But he’s okay?”

            “It scooped out a whole lotta flesh, but he’s pretty much back to normal.” Dean shook his head. “Never seen anyone bounce back the way you two do.”

            “I guess we’re just lucky.”

            “If it wasn’t for bad luck, we wouldn’t have any luck at all,” John’s voice, coming from the study, brought Sam to a turn, and Dean sat up at attention. Rubbing sleep from his eyes with the knuckles of one hand, John lumbered in to join them, yawning.

            “You’re right about that, sir.” Sam agreed.

            John stopped behind Mary’s chair, observing Sam with a calculated eye, and Dean tensed. Things had been even-keeled between John and Sam for weeks, but their family lived on an open rocky plain of involuntary eruptions, and Dean never knew when he’d have to intercede; or when he would be the one slinging punches.

            “Feelin’ all right, Sam?” John asked, and there was more to that than just the question itself.

            Sam nodded. “Yes, sir.” He glanced down at his wrists and added, “Thanks for patching me up.”

            “Wasn’t any trouble.” John said, brisk sincerity in his voice, and the bubbling tension of the situation dissipated. “Dean can wash those dishes, Sam, I want you to head upstairs and get yourself cleaned up.”

            “Yes, sir.” Sam dropped the wet, moldy sponge into Dean’s lap.

            “Aw, gross, Sammy!” Dean protested, picking it up by one relatively-clean corner. “This thing’s probably got a hundred diseases living on it.”

            “Make sure the water’s hot!” Sam taunted.

            “Good thing Lilith left him alive, ’cause _I’m_ gonna kill him.” Dean muttered.

            “John?” Mary said, suddenly, her voce tinged with concern, and Dean shifted his focus as Sam left the room.

            Rubbing his temples, standing by the sink, John had never looked so far away; his eyes distant, clouded, his shoulders hunched with defeat. When Mary addressed him, he looked over his shoulder, and Dean noticed for the first time that the gray at his temples was reaching back, and dapples of salt-and-pepper were spiking his beard.

            “We need to talk. The three of us.” He nodded to Mary and Dean. “I spoke to Bobby this morning. Money’s almost run out.” He scrubbed his eyes again. “If we don’t have a source of income by the end of this month, Bobby’s gotta shut down.”

 

-X-

 

            Sam let the warm spray of the shower heat the knots out of his muscles and roll its way down his bare back.

            He stood with his arms braced before him, hands flat against the wall, head hanging, and from that angle he could see the scars traveling up his wrists. He remembered the event; Lusiver’s knife carving into his skin. He also had a vague recollection of sitting in this bathtub trying to pick his stitches out.

            He didn’t want to ask Mary about it, because his own thoughts at the time had been jumbled, and looking back now was like trying to read a mishmash of anagrams in a foreign language; but Sam wasn’t sure how he would come to grips with it if she looked him in the eye and told him he’d probably been trying to make himself bleed out again.

            He slammed the door on that thought; it didn’t matter. The only thing that was relevant was that he was back with his family, and as long as he had that much, Lilith couldn’t break him. Faith in Dean, in John and in Mary had kept Sam alive while he was in that cage; faith in them now was the only thing he knew of to keep himself out; he had to stay in control.

            Sam let his eyes slide shut, lost in the feeling of the warm water swirling its way down his spine; and then anticipating, suddenly, a feeling like life was about to take another steep plunge for him, for all of them.

            The idea nestled itself in his chest, a fledgling thought huddled against the cold, making room for itself just beneath his heart. Sam’s eyes bounded open and he felt a slow finger of uneasiness drawing loops across his naked back.   

Mostly because those feelings, when they’d come to him while he was being held by the demons, had often proved themselves out. He’d almost known, instinctively and sometimes hours beforehand, when Lilith would be taking him into a fortified room to be another fighter’s training apparatus. Whether it was an extension of his déjà-vu, or if he was just sensitive to the changes of the wind, Sam couldn’t be sure; but it left him chilled in a way that the warm water couldn’t chase out.

He reached over, gripping his right forearm with his left hand, shaking the long wet hair against his cheek with a slap. His time in Lilith’s clutches had left him with more questions than answers; he couldn’t put his finger on what it was, exactly, but something deep inside of him had shifted. It left him feeling trapped, a stranger held ransom in his own skin. He wanted _out_ , but being out left him no place to go.

Turning back, like always, to his family.

His world felt like it had been wrung inside-out, solarized with the brightest colors Sam had ever known; almost too bright, shredding the gauze of blankness that had cocooned him for weeks. Being back inside himself was like waging a war on his own battleground; but at the same time, the unsettled sensation remained.

Something, fundamentally, had changed.

He showered the shampoo and soap from his hair, steaming his skin clean, then stepped out, slinging a towel around his hips and scrubbing his fist across the mirror. When the hot-water fog had cleared, Sam could see his face echoed in the tinted glass: cut across with fragments of multicolored lights from the pastel, stained-glass top of the window, his expression was faintly pinched with every worry brewing near the surface.

Sam didn’t know when he’d last looked in the mirror; but he was sure he hadn’t had these scars, toothmarks of pale, puckered flesh against the otherwise ruddy tone of his skin. Places he could remember feeling the jab of a knife, the abusive kiss of a needle lapping at his blood. They’d drawn blood, the demons, searching for something.

Maybe for what he was. Maybe so he wouldn’t be—he gritted his teeth at the word— _Faceless_ , anymore.

Sam tugged on his jeans, and was reaching for his shirt when he caught a whiff of it and wrinkled his nose; it had trapped the dirty smell of his body inside of it. Tossing it into the hamper, he headed downstairs, toweling off his hair.

The sound of whisper-yelling stopped him at the foot of the stairs; the classic rough hiss of Dean trying to keep his voice modulated.

“—pack up and move! Again!”

“And where the hell do you expect us to go, Dean?” John’s rejoinder was equally tempered. “Back to Lawrence?”

“Some place where we’re not gonna screw Bobby over! If this family’s goin’ down, then we’re not taking him down with us.”

Sam had to grip the railing as a flush of shame and anger cascaded under his skin. Holding the towel to his head with one hand, he craned to listen in.

“We can’t make this decision while we’re angry.” Mary interrupted firmly. “It’ll only hurt us in the long run.”

“We don’t have time to sit around twiddling our thumbs.” Dean protested. “You heard dad, the money’s gone. _Again_. Best thing for all of us is if we break off and let Bobby get his life back.”

“No. The best thing would be if we could find a monster to get us through the rest of the Prelims and into the Leagues.” John muttered.

“Where _Lilith_ is, John. The demon who almost killed our _son_.” Mary snapped.

“I’m not scared of that black-eyed skank.” Dean snorted.

“That’s beside the point.” John said wearily. “Lilith or no Lilith, the fact is no one will make a bet on this family, because they know we can’t win. No monster’s going to fight for us.”

And that alone, the utter desolate conviction in John’s voice, the surety in their doom, solidified Sam’s stance, digging his feet into something concrete and sure and _real_. It resolved him, the realization that while he’d been crumbling, the Winchesters had been crumbling around him; and if nothing else, if he couldn’t do anything for himself, to change what had happened, he could do _this_.

Sam stepped into the doorway, shoulders back and head up. “I will.”

From where he sat on the couch, hands clasped and elbows on his knees, John looked up; Mary rested a hand against her throat. Dean stood up from his perch on the edge of the desk.

“Sam?” His tone was cautious, his eyes scouring Sam’s body, and Sam realized that, for the first time, they could see his scars; the ones he’d hidden under layers, pockmarks of old wounds across his chest, half-moons of vampire fangs and permanent indentations of punches.

Standing that way, he had nothing to hide. “I’ll fight for you. I want back in.”

John stared at him. “You want back into the fight.” Flat, no inflection. Sam let the towel fall, hanging over his shoulder.

“Yeah. I do.”

“No.” Dean’s voice was firm, unbreachable. “Not a chance.”

“Dean—” Sam began, exasperated.

“No, Sam, this is _not_ up for debate. We’ll find some other way, some pint-sized monster to put through the Prelims. I’m not tossing you out to the wolves again.”

“You keep saying you want me to make my own choices?” Sam reminded him sharply. “Well, _this_ is my choice. I want to fight.”

“ _Why_?” Mary asked, and the question was sincere.

Sam couldn’t say, at first; for the spill of his blood, the bittersweet taste of adrenaline, the way he could lose himself in the ability to foresee an opponent’s strikes before they’d even begun to move.

“This is all I have.” He lifted one hand in a gesture to encompass all of them, then dropped his arm back to his side “And I’ll fight for it. With whatever I’ve got, I’ll fight for it. If that means going back into the Pits,” He tipped his head. “Sign me up.”

John smiled, a brief, dry expression.

Dean shook his head. “I don’t like it. It’s not happening.”

Sam heaved a sigh. “Look, Dean, I know how you feel. You’re just trying to look out for me. I get it, and I’m grateful. I really am. But you said it yourself, this family’s going down. And I can’t let that happen. Not if there’s one thing, _one thing_ I can do to stop it.”

Dean shook his head, studied the shaggy rust-red carpet, then glanced up at Sam. There was some sinking, unreadable emotion in his eyes. “Sam, _no_.”

Sam felt himself softening, eyes, voice, his posture relaxing him completely as he stepped closer to Dean. “It scares the hell out of me, too, man. If there was some other way…” He shrugged helplessly. “But I don’t think there is. Whether you like it or not, I’m the best hope you’ve got right now.

            “So you’d face Lilith?” John asked.

            “If you guys can watch my back,” Sam glanced at him and nodded. “Absolutely.”

            The words came across with more conviction than he felt; but he was willing, right now, in this moment, to stand against anything.

            “None of you will be safe.” Mary said, the voice of logic in the storm of choice. “It’s not just Dean in a big city anymore; all three of you will be targets.” Sam could see, too, the fear that blazed in her eyes; not fear for herself, but fear for them.

            “What good’s sitting on the sidelines while Lilith is untouchable?” John slid a glance toward Sam, and Sam met his eyes without feeling a trace of unease. Somewhere along the way, he and John had found their common ground, their protection and purpose and a row of stitches on each of Sam’s arms.

            “This is a bad idea,” Dean threw in.

            “Then give us a better one.” John challenged.

            Silence prevailed, the grandfather clock in the hall steadily ticking. Eventually, John shoved himself to his feet.

            “I’ll look in the papers, talk to Bobby; see what’s around.”

            Flopping the towel more securely over his shoulder, then draping it around his neck, Sam glanced at Dean. Staring after John, mouth puckered slightly, Dean’s expression warred between doubt and acidic frustration; when he caught Sam watching him, he moved seamlessly into a lazy, lounging grin.

            “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Dean yanked the towel up and rubbed it over Sam’s hair until Sam ducked his hold, protesting.

            But the brevity of the moment was wreathed with the knowledge that Sam had finally made his choice, and it was the one that contradicted everything he’d ever really wanted; but he found, suddenly, that it was everything he needed in the moment.

            He was going back to the Pits.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Five: For Better or Worse

 

            The first fight they found after an hour of searching was in Rexford, Montana.

John chose it for the sole benefit of being as far from a big city as they could possibly get on their meager supply of gas and finances; Sam agreed to it, acutely conscious of the fact that for once, John had come to him and asked him—not told, _asked_ —if he wanted to try a particular fight. Conferring with Dean earned nothing more than an ill-tempered grunt, so Sam was left to choose: “Yeah, sounds great.”

And even though, fundamentally, it wasn’t, Sam knew better than to say anything. It wasn’t an argument worth engaging, because it would be, at its core, an argument against himself.

“It starts the day after tomorrow,” John said, rolling the newspaper into a funnel and slapping it on the top of Dean’s head, jolting him out of his brooding silence. “Back in the saddle, boys.”

A perpetual cloud of anticipation hung over Bobby’s house that night, turning lively rooms into graveyards. Sam twisted the funeral cloth of his blanket between his fingers, listening to the fan making its repetitive whirring circuit inside the box jammed under the window; Dean was snoring in the other bed, twitching slightly as he dreamed.

Sam thought he would trade insomnia for nightmares, if it just meant he could get some sleep. He’d barely slept at all in Nashville, on constant high alert for the approach of a demon, and he had a vague recollection of brief spurts of restless dreaming afterward, leaving him with gaps that needed to be filled.

But he was fidgety, fitful, and with a sharp pang like a stomachache, Sam found himself missing Lawrence.

He liked Bobby, a perfect fit to the Winchester lifestyle with his gruff demeanor hiding a soft underbelly below. But there was something about having his own room, a retreat, as quiet or as loud as he liked it. A door he could shut, some place to escape. In spite of everything, in spite of being caged, Sam found that Sioux Falls breathed too much freedom; some part of him was afraid that all that wide open space would tempt him to run, and never look back.

Sam kicked one leg free of the blanket, then the other; Dean stirred in the other bed, mashing his face deeper into his pillow. After a few frozen seconds to be sure his movements had gone unnoticed, Sam got to his feet and slipped out the door.

The house was quiet, and that was another thing that needled at Sam’s peace; they all capitulated to Bobby’s strict rules about bedtimes because, for his generosity, it was the least they could do. But Sam missed the sound of Mary clattering and humming in the kitchen, the occasional cough from John or the pacing of his feet. And even Dean, sometimes, staying up late, his voice bending and swelling like waves. He’d try to stay quiet, conscious that Sam was in bed, but he’d lose himself in whatever he was telling Mary and his voice would rise until he was half-shouting.

Trading these comforts for silence gave Sam a feeling of his skin slowly starting to crawl, as he padded downstairs; like something hot and itchy had been poured into his veins, abrading its way free.

The touch of cool night air calmed him by a fraction; from the light of the porch, throwing a globe of gritty greenish-yellow across swatches of grass before him, Sam found his way to Dean’s truck, parked hip-to-hip with the Impala. He vaulted over the side and stretched out on his back, watching the pinwheel of stars overhead.

He’d missed these; the stars. He’d missed the feeling of breathing without a vice of fear noosing his chest, but even now foreign sounds brought a visceral reaction of dread that could jackknife him to attention no matter what he was doing. Even after he’d decided _it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except my family_ , the weight depressed him in the breaches of company when there wasn’t any strength left to show.

Sam didn’t want to know the person he’d be if, freed from the fog, he let himself really look into what Lilith and Lusiver and Azazel had done.

So he watched the stars, instead, and mulled over Rexford.

A sudden, resounding clatter of sound next to his left ear brought Sam almost to his feet in the bed of the truck, one fist cocked for a punch, then dropping as he recognized the sleepy green eyes and mess of bedhead.

“Dude, it’s one in the morning. What’re you doin’ out here?” Dean’s voice was rough and twisted itself around a yawn.

“Couldn’t sleep, I guess.” Sam sank back down onto his knees, avoiding Dean’s eyes and plucking a splinter from the ankle of his sweatpants—borrowed sweatpants, Dean’s, so they were a little short. But at least the shirt was his, Dean had brought his clothes from Kansas. One of the few comforts, because it still smelled like home.

And there was something, there, something in that thought that found its way under his skin, found a burrow in his heart and stayed there. It pulsed, strange, and unsure, a feeling that he was missing something. But Sam couldn’t for the life of him find what is was; every time that sensation returned, he tried to bring it into focus. But, somehow, it managed to remain elusive.

The tailgate of the truck banged open, startling him again, and Dean lumbered clumsily inside. “Scootch over.”

Sam did, not really sure where he was supposed to go in the cramped quarters, until Dean pulled the tailgate back up, braced his feet against it and linked his arms loosely around his knees.

Sam sank back down into stillness with his back to Dean’s, legs half-folded and arms draped between them, head leaned back to watch the stars.

And it was moments like these, Sam realized, that he’d missed more than anything; the stillness, and the singularity that came from being alone with Dean. Not isolation, but two halves becoming whole, forgetting the meaning of loneliness and betraying it for understanding.

 Sam had missed the heartbeat he could feel swaying between their bodies, the unconscious way their breathing synchronized. Dean was the beginning of everything, and Sam was the end; and in the Reactor Sam had been aching for the better half of something, a powerful sense of belonging that he’d been afraid to forget.

“Nervous?” Dean’s tone invited Sam to honesty.

“It’s just a Pit. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Man, you always did suck out loud at lying.” Dean sniffed, adjusting his seat on the bed of the truck. “You know this is a bad idea, right? We just got you back, and now you’re putting your neck out there for the demons to chop it off? Yeah, that’s really balanced.”

“What else ’m’I supposed to do, Dean? You said it yourself, everything’s messed up right now. If there’s some way I can help, then I gotta try.”

“We just got you back, what, like, six hours ago? And your ass is already out of the frying pan and into the fire.” Dean groaned, tipping his head back. “God, I wish I didn’t know you. Pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, I know you do.” Sam leaned back, his head bumping Dean’s. “You think I can do it, right?” He hadn’t expected it, the vulnerability that seeped through, turning the jaunty question into something more.

Dean’s silence lasted a beat too long. “Aw, Sam, c’mon. You know I do.”

Sam tucked his chin down to his chest. “Dean—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean grumbled.

Sam twisted around, bracing one hand on the gritted metal bed of the truck. “Do you?” He challenged, and Dean held his silence. Sam shifted his molars together. “Then I don’t want you to pull me out of this fight, Dean. I don’t care how bad it gets. If I’m spitting out my _teeth_ , just…don’t say a word.”

“Aw, Sam, c’mon!” Dean protested, propping his chin against his shoulder to angle a backwards glare at Sam. “First you’re on my case ’cause I asked you to go easy on Jo’s Kitsune, now you’re riding my ass because I’m trying to look out for you? What’m I supposed to do if some freak in that Pit is tearing your _lungs_ out, huh? Just wave my _Go Team_ flag and pretend I can’t see it?”

“Do whatever you have to, just don’t pull me.”

“Dammit, Sam—!”

“Dean, look.” Sam insisted. “It’s not easy. It’s messy, it’s bloody, and there’s a real possibility it’ll end sad.”

“And this is supposed to _convince_ me?” Dean scoffed.

Sam ignored the interruption. “But we always knew that could happen, ever since Lawrence. It never stopped us before.”

“Yeah, well, maybe back then I didn’t know how much we had to lose!”

“Dean.” Sam was warming into the argument, the kind that couldn’t be solved by blows because when it came down to it, that was what this late-night disagreement was all about: how far did Sam have a right to push this, how much could he toe the line before he tripped over the edge? “I just need two more fights, and we make it to the Leagues. After that, I dunno, we can see what happens.”

Dean rubbed a hand down his face, turning his head away. “I can’t do it.”

Sam yanked up the sleeve of his thermal shirt and shifted into Dean’s space, baring his forearm and the puckered, white-scarred brand there, over Dean’s shoulder, close to his eyes. “You’re the one who taught me that this _means_ something. I’m not wasting it, Dean. Lilith, monsters, hell, whatever _I_ am, I’ll take it. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. There is _nothing_ I wouldn’t do for you, for John and Mary and Bobby, and that means I’d die for you.”

“Well, cram it up your ass! If this is some sick suicide mission, I’ll pull you out right here and now! You’re not doin’ this to yourself, Sam!”

Sam warred ferociously against the feeling of his control slipping, his grip waxing weak around the situation; warred for calm. “You’re right. I’m not. I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

Sam dropped down, sitting beside Dean now rather than behind him, still facing away; he slid his eyes sideways to Dean, found Dean watching him, head turned, waiting. Their shoulders almost touched.

“Can’t let you die, Sam.” Dean shrugged loosely, favoring the yard with his angry stare. “I can’t do it. You’re like my little brother, y’know, you’re my responsibility. Getting to Lilith isn’t worth a damn thing to me if I end up doing it alone.”

“ _Dean_.” Sam kept his voice soft, persuading. “You don’t have to do this alone. I _want_ your help. Believe me, I do. But, out here. Where it counts. I’m sorry, but you _can’t_ always save me. I have to fight Lilith on my own terms.”

“That, right there, that’s the kinda thinking that’s gonna get you killed.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Sam cleared his throat. “Tell me you’re not gonna pull me, Dean, and I swear I won’t go down. Not on my terms, and sure as _hell_ not on any monster’s terms.”

“ _All right, fine_!” Dean snapped. “I don’t like it, but _fine_.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, fervently.

Dean knocked his shoulder hard against Sam’s. “You’re not that scared kid I yanked outta that cage, Sam. Now you’re a freakin’ con artist.”

Sam shook his hair back, and laughed.

“Con artist who needs a haircut.” Dean added.

“I dunno. I kinda like it.”

“You’re such a friggin’ girl sometimes.”

“And you’re an ass.”

The pinwheel kept spinning, and they kept sitting, and there was a quiet victory for Sam in knowing that he had, at least, won this round.

For better or for worse.

 

-X-

 

Sam had forgotten what it felt like to fight.

Training, even with Lilith, was different; training was constructed around the absence of outside sounds, comprised of the ability to hear every blunted impact of every blow. And while Sam had been able to give as good as he got, at first, in the Reactor, his entire world had eventually shrunk to the feeling of someone else’s foot in his ribs, someone else’s hand in his hair, just another fist pummeling his chest; until the shock of the pain left him sprawled on his side, head resting on one outstretched arm, watching dust motes swirl through the air while the only sound was his breathing, and the coarse, labored respirations of whatever monster had been beating on him.

This was different; different, and remembered, if not welcomed.

They drove through the late afternoon and most of the night, John and Bobby in the cab of the truck and Sam and Dean in the bed; taking the denim-blue pickup rather than the Impala because the Impala was a prize, a shimmering onyx beacon of muscle and metal, and if Gordon was around the Pit it would draw unwanted hostility.

Sam would’ve dreaded being relegated to the back of the pickup if it wasn’t for the favorable weather, and Dean’s company.

They sat on opposite sides of the bed, Sam with his flannel shirt rucked to the elbows, letting the wind toss his hair over his eyes; Dean played his guitar, played all of Sam’s favorites that Sam, himself, had forgotten to remember. Sometimes Sam sang along; but mostly he just listened, eyes closed, and soaked up the comfort of the present, letting it blanket and wash out the bitter bile of the last months.

When he tired out from playing, Dean set the guitar aside and found other way to entertain himself; his favorite method of distraction manifesting itself in invading Sam’s space, poking, elbowing, shoving him, digging his fingers into Sam’s ribs or trying to stamp his feet flat on the floor.

            Dean was bored; Sam’s mind was far too occupied with all the wrong things, if he let it wander at all: nervousness, and memories. So Sam let Dean have his fun, let Dean draw him back with his nudges and prodding, back from the grave of his wandering thoughts. Sam had a hazy outline of Dean being a ghost of a burdened man, before their fight in the junkyard. Seeing him back in moderately high spirits was calming in itself, and kept Sam smiling.           

The sense of reprieve lasted until they reached Rexford; while they slept, Sam and Dean with their heads at opposite ends of the truck’s bed, John inside and Bobby climbing out, slamming the door and wandering off grumbling, there was a sense of warmth and pervading comfort that made Sam want to freeze time.

He hadn’t slept that well in days; but it didn’t last long. A Pit, even an outdoor one, hummed and vibrated with activity; cars arrived at the lakeshore outside of Rexford late after sunrise, and when Sam hauled himself up on his elbows, sore from the ribbed belly of the pickup, he could see a hulking, snarling monster being led away from a windowless van several yards away.

It was enough to bring him slamming back to the reality, to what awaited them, chasing any thought of sleep from his mind. Sam wadded up his hoodie and tossed it onto Dean’s face, digging a heel into his side for added measure as he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“What? What’d I miss?” Dean mumbled, sitting up as well, yawning widely.

“Nothing, yet.” Sam grabbed his flannel overshirt off the floorboards, where he’d shucked it when the close quarters the night before had made him sweat, and pulled it on; it was tacky and smelled funny, but he’d need it. Montana mornings, even in summer, were just on this side of chilly.

Dean arched his back against the cab and stretched languidly. “Looks like the folks are rollin’ in.”

“Guess so.” Sam legged himself over the tailgate and dropped hard on the ground, his knees popping as he straightened.

“Don’t wander off,” Dean grunted, sniffing Sam’s hoodie and wrinkling his nose. “Gross! Take your sweatrag, Sam.”

Sam caught it when Dean threw it, tempering down a spark of irritation that wasn’t really a result of Dean’s brisk comment about the hoodie and more with Dean’s kneejerk command for Sam to stay close.

It wasn’t that Sam took Dean’s protection for granted; he knew that it was inestimable, a saving grace of sorts and more than he deserved. But in his mind, there wasn’t time to weigh the cost of a life, least of all his own. Not when Lilith, prowling at their flanks, had the wherewithal, motivation and attitude to slaughter their entire family and bring the world down to its knees.

Sam knew that this was her plan, because Dean knew that this was her plan; and the only reason that Lilith would’ve said anything at all was because in her estimation, no matter how many people he told, Dean couldn’t do anything about it. Especially not now with the radio waves running interference twenty four hours a day.

Sam aimed to be the ace in the hole, the hidden weapon in the back pocket of humanity; whether human or not, himself, he still had the power in his grasp to throw a wrench into the demonic cogs that had the world spinning backwards.

But he needed Dean with him on this; the only one he trusted to watch his back. And that virtue was the wrench in Sam’s own plan, because when Dean loved, he loved too fiercely. With the fervor that would put a man between a friend and charging monster; with the intensity that erased the lines between races. But over the edge, too, with that heart of guardianship, a protector that would put the fate of a loved one before the fate of the world.

Sam wasn’t sure he knew what that love felt like, welling from the inside, blacking out everything else.

Dean reached around the side of the cab and popped the passenger door, interrupting Sam’s tilt-a-whirl thoughts; he slung the guitar inside, locked the door and banged it shut before he vaulted over to land beside Sam, twisting and stretching the cramps from his muscles. “Dad’s gone. Musta gone for a walk.”

Sam didn’t comment; he’d felt a tinge of guilt for that, for John having to sleep cramped and packed into the front seat, and Bobby taking post closer to the water—with mutterings, of course, about sand fleas and crabs climbing inside a man’s private tent. It had taken Sam a minute to get it, since they hadn’t actually brought a tent, and when the meaning had dawned on him he’d only felt worse.

But Bobby was gone, John was gone, and more and more people were arriving, filtering in with their monsters in tow. Sam jumped slightly when Dean gave the hoodie a tug, almost sliding the wad from his hands.

“Put it on,” He instructed. “You don’t want anyone knowin’ who you are.”

“Why not?” Sam asked as he stuffed his arms in the sleeves and flipped up the hood. “I thought that was the whole point, Dean.”

He earned a withering look for that. “Not yet. You wanna blow the socks right off these suckers, just wait ’til they see your face in the ring.” He whistled lowly.

Sam heaved a sigh. “Look, let’s just find Bobby and John and get checked in, okay?” His eyes darted, finding a bloodthirsty, venomous adlet, a wraith, a Maero. His stomach churned; for once he wished he and Dean had never opted to spend hours poring over bestiaries from every culture and country. He could recognize a towering humanoid, a half-dog cannibal, a sleek predator, name them and describe them from yards away. And it only made him feel worse, made him feel more unbalanced.

“Sam!” Dean said, suddenly, sharply, and at the feeling of Dean’s hand fisting in the back of his shirt, Sam looked over his shoulder. Dean watched him, green eyes wide, reflecting the dim glow of daylight under the shawl of clouds. A silent question, there: _You good?_

Sam nodded, and shrugged vaguely. _I’ll be fine._

Dean’s hand captured a tighter fistful of Sam’s shirt. _Bullcrap._ He tilted his head slightly, sideways and forward, the gesture a question in itself. _What’s up?_

Sam’s eyes dragged unwillingly back to his upcoming opponents, and Dean, after a moment, loosened his hold on Sam’s shirt. Sam was surprised to find that, in spite of everything, he was sad to lose the contact.

“They’re just monsters, Sam, c’mon. You’ve fought worse.”

“I know. I know, it’s just…” Sam shrugged, again. “Doesn’t feel the same.”

He felt Dean watching him closely. “If I ask you if you really wanna do this, you’re not gonna bite my head off again, are ya?”

The guilt came full-circle, crashing over Sam, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets with an awkward sideways smile. “Guess not.” He puffed out a sigh. “Look, man, I’m sorry about the other night. I just…really wanted you to get where I was coming from.”

“S’okay, Sammy, I get it.” Dean bumped shoulders with him in passing. “Let’s get this show on the road. Just, uh…stay close.”

Dean’s cautious expression put Sam on alert. “You smell Gordon?”

“I smell a lotta Handlers with a lot to lose, and one overgrown kid who’s gonna show ’em the backdoor with their asses in their hands. I think we got a reason to be careful.” Dean replied pertly.

Sam’s smile, this time, was much more relaxed. “Good point.”

They melded into the sea of people streaming toward the Pit: oblong and ringed with barbed wire, the posts sunk deep into the sand and flanked by three dilapidated wooden shacks. Sam felt an initial twinge of warning confirmed when he watched the adlet being wrestled into one of the twelve-by-twelve wooden huts.

He nudged Dean and nodded. “Not good.”

“Yeah, I see.” Dean muttered.

They met up with John and Bobby close to the check-in counter, a uniform Formica table with its rubber-shod feet plunged deep into the sand. Bobby was nursing a beer and John a sandwich, one of a dozen that Mary had packed them in a cooler that had crashed against Sam’s knees a dozen times on the drive; when Dean waved and started elbowing through the crowd, Sam on his heels, John pulled two plastic-wrapped squares from his pocket and lobbed them into the boys’ hands.

“Breakfast of champions,” He said dryly. Sam unwrapped the sandwich and sniffed experimentally, almost gagging; mustard, ham, and American cheese, the kind of processed orange imitation squares that Dean insisted were the crux of a good grilled sandwich. Sam would just as soon use it as a weapon against a monster; but with John watching him, eyebrows hefted in a challenge, Sam forced himself to bite, chew, and swallow. Bite, chew, and swallow. Every small section he ate had some nutritional value, something to make him an inch stronger in the fight.

He could only tell himself that so many times before his stomach revolted; excusing himself, Sam looped up the hillside, away from the cars, and projectile-vomited into the bushes, which left him feeling better and also worse in leaps and lulls as he stayed down on his hands and knees, waiting for the purge to pass; wondering if this was really because of the food, or because his muscles were tying themselves in complicated knots. When he pulled himself up to his feet and turned, wiping his streaming nose and mouth on the back of his hand, Dean was leaning against a tree behind him, grinning.

“Not a mustard fan, huh?”

“Eat me.” Sam snapped.

Dean slammed him on the back, eliciting a stinging burp from Sam’s abused throat. “Just tell us next time, dude. We’re not gonna force-feed you.”

Back to the table, back to the throng filtering around the pen, and they couldn’t put it off anymore. John slid his license out of his wallet and approached the table with Bobby, Sam and Dean flanking him.

“John Winchester.” He laid the laminated card on the table, and the check-in blinked his sleepy eyes wide, head bolting up, horn-rimmed glasses falling askance. He sputtered, glancing at Sam, who returned the baleful stare with a brief smile.

“ _The_ John Winchester?” The man spluttered.

“How many John Winchesters you got out here?” Dean made an exaggerated sweep of the audience. The check-in readjusted his glasses, looking to Sam.

“So—so this—is he—?”

Sam tilted his head, silently assessing, figures filtering through his brain; if the man’s sweater-vest, paisley pants and crystal-faced watch were any indication, he was a fresh face on the circuit; maybe at his first Pit. He had the look of a big city librarian, or a bookkeeper; which might be why they’d brought him in to assemble the names for a fight. But unfamiliarity with the circuit left any man at a disadvantage, especially when he didn’t know to dress down and keep his mouth shut. Even John didn’t wear his wedding band to a fight; and in the weeks before Lilith had come for him, Sam had noticed Dean tucking his dogtags into the front of his shirt before he’d step foot into a Pit.

This man was awkward, unadjusted, and blatantly curious.

He was also crossing Dean.

“Yeah, we’d kinda like to keep this whole thing on the downlow.” Dean’s tone was friendly but with a rough undercurrent of warning.

The man nodded. “I understand completely I just…when you see a monster back from the dead, and we’ve heard all about him, believe me, my family and I, a _Faceless_ with so much _power_ —”

Sam felt the impact of the words low in his belly, anger and shame swirled together and shoved aside the second Dean reached across the table and seized the man by the lapel of his sweater-vest, hauling him to his feet.

“You’ve got a job to do, and it’s not motor-mouthing.” He snarled. “So sit your ass down, do your thing, and let us do ours.”

Sam intervened at the look of shock on the check-in’s face, grabbing Dean’s shoulder from behind, giving him a shake. “ _Dean_. Let the man go.”

Dean shot him a glance, met Sam’s cock-eyed, insistent stare, then flexed his hand open. The check-in dropped unceremoniously into his seat, scribbled John’s name in his logbook and took down their opening bet—one thousand, clean and solid, for safety’s sake—checked his license and waved them through before the purplish coloring of his face had receded.

“We need to work on that temper of yours, Deano,” John commented.

“That asshat didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut,” Dean grumbled. “C’mon, Sam, guess we gotta hit the shack.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded to John and Bobby, and blinked in surprise when John clapped him on the shoulder.

“Kick it in the ass, Sam.”

“Yes, sir, you know I will.”

“Gotta say I’m tickled to see what you’re made of, boy.” Bobby added, and he elbowed his way through the crowd toward the Pit without another word, John on his heels. Sam wiped his clammy palms on his jeans and followed Dean to the first of the three shacks; Dean heaved the door open, peered inside at the chains and metal cuffs grafted into the wall, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“’Least nothing in here can rip your throat out.” He sidestepped and Sam moved past him, into the dank, cold room. The dirt floor was packed into semisolid mud, streaked with sweat and blood from the monsters that twisted and fought their restraints. Sam was struck with the forceful reality of being right back where he hated the most, walking open-armed into a den of lions.

“This was a crap idea.”

“Yeah, it was _your_ crap idea.” Dean reminded him, toeing the door partially shut, one strip of daylight illuminating Sam and the wall to his right, casting his elongated shadow before him “You sure you wanna do this?”

Sam breathed out slowly. “No, not really.” He edged over to the wall and picked up one of the coils of metal anchored to the wall. “Tie me up.”

Dean’s expression was unreadable as he moved to Sam’s side, clapping the metal cuff onto his wrist. Sam winced at the sharp pinch of grooves munching together, meeting Dean’s eyes on a brief glance before they both looked down again.

“Should be good.” Dean’s words were almost lost under the moans and wet, thirsty snarls of the monsters, smelling his human flesh. “Look, Sam, when you get out there, just, uh—” _Don’t die, don’t get yourself killed. Don’t lose_.

“Yeah. I know.” Sam murmured. “You should go, these things are already gonna be enough of a pain without catching your scent.”

“Yeah.” Dean sniffed, wiped his nose briefly on his wrist, then cuffed Sam on the arm and let himself out. Sinking down into a crouch with his back to the wall, Sam braced his hands palm-to-palm against his forehead, letting the sounds of the holding cell wash over him.

Not Lilith’s cage; not dangerous, he reminded himself, he could take any one of these monsters down. He was in control, in his element, and Lilith couldn’t touch him. This was his world; not Dean’s, even, not John’s, but Sam’s.

_In control._

Fifteen minutes later, Sam had no choice but to anchor himself in the game; the door opened and a bouncer stood illuminated in the entryway, light cast against his back. Sam scrambled to his feet as the man unlocked the cuff on his wrist and shoved him out into the light, toward the crowd and the Pit.

A hush claimed the onlookers, leaving a chilling anticipation on the air; eyes swung toward him, toward _Sam_ , branded with the Winchester mark, _Faceless_ , the freak of the fighting circuit. The one who could hold his own against almost anything; the prodigal son of the underdogs, back from the dead.

They parted to let him through, afraid to touch him; afraid that some part of _invincible monster_ would brush off on them. The bouncer slid ahead of Sam, opened the gate, leaving him to face the stalking adlet, its venomous claws sinking into the sand with every gangly stride.

Sam’s eyes, circling the crowd, found Dean as he squeezed in between two burly bodies. Their gazes met, and Dean flipped him a megawatt grin and a thumbs-up. And if everything else was different, somehow, that much hadn’t changed.

Sam settled his stance and faced the adlet, the dog-like creature, arms spread wide. “What are you waiting for?”

The crowd erupted with wild screams of delight, and in a spray of sand, Sam was back in the game.

 

-X-

 

The fight itself was a fast-beat blur of sand and blood, the scrape of teeth and claws on skin. This differed, too, from Lilith’s training rounds; in the Reactor, many of the monsters were like Sam: humanoids, giving no hint of their power except in random spurts when the need called for it. While Sam had been fortunate enough to be spared fighting Jake more than once—Lilith’s prize fighter who was renowned for being strong enough to literally snap another monster clean in half, ribs and spine and guts altogether—he’d faced enough fighters on his level to grow appreciative of dull-witted animals.

The adlet proved itself to be of that ilk: massive, leggy, violently hungry for flesh—but under all that, slow. Stupid. Not like a Wendigo, cunning, or a vampire, precise and quick. Sam dodged its venomous talons and snapped its neck on the follow-through of a Jujutsu movement, and that was that.

Sam could almost smell the money turning hands; now that the crowd knew he was there, they were placing their bets on him. What could Sam do, they whispered behind their hands, after a few months out of the ring?

Sam ignored them, shut them out; held the wraith, a small, redheaded girl, under his knee with her arms pinned behind her back until she screamed mercy and the bouncer told Sam to let her up. Sam did, immediately, hating the way her eyes speared into him as she was hustled out, the bracelet bruises forming on her wrists from his hands.

That match left him distracted, left him open to the next opponent he faced; so that, for the first time in a month, Sam felt the hundred-needle sting of vampire fangs gouging into his thigh before he kneed the thing in the head and twisted loose. Tacky blood spotted the sand as Sam hop-slid out of reach; the vampire, a female with stringy, unwashed hair and yellowing teeth, was after him with alarming singularity, throwing her weight on his chest. Sam staggered backward, the wire of the arena’s edge tangling into his shirt, ramming the barbs deep into his skin. He cried out, grabbed the vampire by her narrow shoulders and shoved her off, dropping on top of her on the sand.

Her tongue whipped frantically for his leg, dying of thirst, mad with bloodlust. Sam wondered if he tasted bittersweet with the adrenaline coursing through his veins; if the sweat that stung his wound would change the flavor of his blood. Pinning the vampire with one hand clamped to her throat, he found there was a sick, perverse part of his brain that wanted to let her feed, just a little, just to know that he was all there, that some part of him really was human.

The thought left him too shaken to react before the ten-second countdown was over and he was being thrown off of the vampire by the same heavy-handed bouncer. Sprawled on the sand, Sam met Dean’s eyes; shallow green pools staring back, obviously concerned. Sam realized he was dripping blood through slits in his deep-necked t-shirt, his skin feather-crossed with itchy stripes from the barbs.

“M’fine,” He mumbled, grabbing for something to heft himself up and skinning his palm on the wire. He tried to shake his head clear, turned, found his shoulder slammed into the fencepost by the next monster, a furious Shapeshifter that was John’s height and build but younger, lither, quicker.

He plucked Sam’s head back and slammed it into the post, slammed it again, then kicked Sam brutally in the back, shoving his body flush against the wood. Sam dropped, momentarily dazed, blood running from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten his cheek; synapses of pain fired through his torso and head, and he looked up blearily, finding the Shapeshifter pacing, waiting for him to rise. Not killing; _playing_.

 _Don’t call it, Dean, don’t call it_ , Sam worked his legs under his body and rose. The pain in his head was distracting him, feeling like a concussion, like his brain was badly rattled. When he took a step, the ground seemed to bow out away from him, and he heard laughter from the crowd a second before the Shapeshifter’s fist in his face distorted his reality, knocking him flat on his ass.

More laughter; one eye streaming from the punch, Sam looked up at Dean.

He was tense, a living electric current seeming to move his eyes; hands scraping back through his hair, watching Sam.

 _He’s gonna call it,_ Sam realized bleakly, and a dull rush of panic dumped adrenaline into his lungs. _Either he’s going to call it or I’m gonna die._

The Shapeshifter charged him.

Sam spun his weight on his hands and one knee, hooking the Shapeshifter’s legs out from under him with a solid curve of a kick. The man hit the sound with an audible gust of air rushing from his lungs, and Sam pounced on him; torquing the man’s arm, pummeling his ribs with two solid kicks, elbowing him hard in the throat to bruise his windpipe. Then he flipped him over, latched him into a headlock. Knew that, like a demon, Shapeshifters couldn’t be killed in a wrestling match. Had to be silver, the only weakness; they were mutated into something else, something tougher than any human had the right to be.

But still wearing the face; this man, who _looked_ like a man, and smelled like human sweat and blood. Sam was caught in the middle again, pinning the monster down; until the countdown swelled in his ears and he smacked the Shapeshifter unconscious.

A crazy outburst of excitement from the crowd, and Sam sat back, heaving for breath, each exhalation cut off by a short gasp. He pushed himself to his feet, the praise of the riotous observers sliding away like cold mud as he realized he had a break, somebody else needed to fight. Sam didn’t become conscious of the fact that he was going the wrong way, really, didn’t realize it wasn’t the _right_ way until he ducked under the fence and Dean grabbed both of his shoulders.

“Dude, you’re supposed to go back to the—!” He broke off, studying Sam’s face, then sank to his knees and Sam, gracelessly, folded down with him. “Okay. Okay, just take it easy, Sammy.”

“I can’t breathe.” Sam said, his chest still lurching in brutal rasps.

“That’s ’cause you panicked out there, kiddo.” Dean’s hand met his chest, rubbing a slow, uncomplicated circle over his lungs. “Easy, Sam, just copy me.” Dean pulled an exaggerated breath, then let it out; in, and out. Sam matched the tempo, found himself relaxing, the tight band around his ribs easing off.

“You were about to call it,” He blurted, accusing.

Dean’s eyes rounded innocently. “Was not.” When Sam’s face shifted into a downcast expression of disbelief, Dean insisted, “ _Dude_ , I was _not_ gonna call it!”

“Fine.”

“Fine!”

“ _Fine_.” Sam glanced at the Pit, a grotesque horse-headed humanoid and a Black Dog circling one another. “I guess I should probably—” He bit off the words, wincing at the sting in his back.

“Hey.” Dean gave the back of his neck a squeeze. “I’ll patch you up when this is over, okay? Just get back out there and keep kickin’ ass, Sammy.”

Sam nodded, let Dean grasp his forearm and haul him to his feet, and by the time he had his balance back the Black Dog’s teeth were being prized away from the humanoid’s throat by that bouncer, and the monster’s lifeless body was dragged out of the arena.

Sam found his confidence boosted marginally by the fact that Dean hadn’t called the fight. He glided through the next two rounds effortlessly but caught more wounds, more pain on the third fight after his reprieve, tussling with a Nagual that shifted constantly from a human, dodging him, to a jaguar on the offensive, shredding his biceps and back into ribbons; until Sam managed to pin him down as a wildcat, choking his air off with a sleeper hold, and no one else stepped up to challenge.

And suddenly Sam was forty-nine rounds strong and several strips of flesh lighter.

Through the sound of the check-in’s voice asking any Handlers who would like to remain for an after-event bonfire to please contribute in some way, Sam wound his way back into the crowd, searching for Dean. He was feeling wobbly and turned-around when a hand came from nowhere, hooking around his side and pulling him from the throng moving down the beach, and Sam staggered against John.

“You’re bleeding everywhere,” John commented. “You should’ve hung tight and waited for Dean.”

“Couldn’t sit still, I guess.” Sam mumbled sheepishly.

“Hell of a job for your first time back in,” John said, keeping one hand on Sam’s shoulder and sweeping the crush of bodies with a critical gaze, presumably searching for Dean and Bobby. “Thought that Shapeshifter might’ve gotten a leg up on you.”

“Yeah, he almost did.” Sam touched a hand to the back of his shirt, sticky in places with fresh blood and rough where it had dried in others.

“I see them,” John said suddenly, and then Bobby and Dean were pushing through the mass of people, falling in with them. Dean moved close to Sam, catching his eye.

“You good?” When Sam nodded, Dean glanced at Bobby. “You mind grabbin’ the first aid kit outta the truck?”

“Under the front seat,” John added, and Bobby went.

Dean led Sam down close to the waves, and Sam, exhausted, spent, but marginally content with his victory, was more than willing to just follow along. Pushing Sam down onto a six-foot branch of driftwood, Dean shoved the shirt up almost to the nape of Sam’s neck and rinsed it with antiseptic; Sam was so used to the irregular bite of the cleansing alcohol that he barely flinched.

“You did good out there, Sam.” Dean’s voice broke the semi-silence; darkness was moving in, and further down the bank a towering bonfire was being lit, Handlers and onlookers gathering around to share beer and whatever food anyone could spare. It was almost communal, Sam thought, almost human, so different form the raging bloodlust that always hemmed in the sides of a Pit.

“One more fight until the Leagues,” Sam said, hanging his wrists from his knees and tucking his head as Dean taped gauze patches onto the lesions along his spine.

“Yeah, but you know what that means, right?” Dean let the question hang in the air for a few seconds. “Gordon’s gonna want to play you against the Duchess. Two best fighters in the Prelims, should be a hell of a show.”

“I can take her. She’s just a vampire.”

“No, she’s _Gordon’s_ vampire. And she’s been training for longer than you have, man. Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m not cocky, I just…I don’t see the big deal.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never seen this bitch in a fight.” Sam heard the first aid kid snap shut and Dean ruffled the sweat-crusted hair at the back of Sam’s head. “We’re good. C’mon, let’s get some grub.”

“You go, I’m gonna stay.”

Dean hesitated, then shrugged audibly. “All right, suit yourself.”

His footsteps ground away through the sand, and Sam tipped his head back; it had been a long day with a late start, the first icy pinheads of stars appearing through the veil of clouds scattered by a high wind.

 Some part of Sam—the part fused in with his aches and pains—had thought that getting back in the saddle would be easier; that he’d avoid hits more than he had this time around, that he’d be faster and more powerful, liked he’d been before.

But it was the same agonizing cycle, only, somehow, it was worse now. He didn’t remember it hurting this badly; which left him wondering if he’d lost his touch.

Letting his head fall forward, the wind catching and tossing his hair, Sam stared across the endless expanse of the lake.

“Good game in there.”

Sam twisted around, one hand braced behind him, looking up at the girl who’d come to join him; the sunset glow muted her features, but Sam distinguished blackish-brown hair curled in hanks around full, high-boned cheeks, soft thick lips and wide, dark eyes. It was the kind of face, and a well-muscled, slender body to match, that engaged a part of his brain that wasn’t really his brain at all.

“What, you mean the Pit?” He asked, awkwardly.

“No, the football game, genius.” She laughed, sitting on the driftwood beside him. “It’s Sam, right?”

“How’d you guess?” Sam shot back with a smirk.

“Word gets around.” The girl braced her hands on either side of her body, leaning back and looking up. “I’ve been wanting to see you fight for a long time. Guess I’m just lucky you didn’t _actually_ die out there.”

“Pretty lucky.” Sam echoed quietly, stretching his boots out to toe the surf.

There was a moment of silence, Sam watching this strange girl sideways; she looked his age, maybe a year or two older, and he couldn’t help admiring her assets for a moment before flushing and looking away again.

“Mind if I give you some advice?” She said, suddenly, and Sam lifted a hand, then dropped it onto his knee.

“By all means.”

“You can’t really play God’s child in the fight. No offense, but you kinda go easy out there. You’ve gotta pound the monsters into the sand, it’s really the only way to stop them for good.”

“Yeah, but if you can win on a countdown—”

“Then you just have to fight them some other time.” She said, her tone heavy with irony. “I mean, that’s how the whole industry survives. People don’t kill monsters, they just recycle, recycle, recycle.”

“Sounds to me like you know the game.” A token of Sam’s curiosity flavored his voice and he tossed a casual smile her way.

“I get around.” She tugged down her black, skin-tight camisole. “Look, sorry, I didn’t mean to…come over here and start lecturing you, I just noticed that you—”

“No, don’t apologize, seriously.” Sam said. “Truth is, not many people really…give me advice on this stuff. I mean, Dean does, and Dean’s great, it’s just nice to get another opinion every once in a while.”

“Dean.” The girl bit the tip of her thumb, then hiked it over her shoulder. “He was the one patching you up?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Huh. He doesn’t really act like a Handler.” Her face creased into a lopsided smile, drawing creases into her skin. Sam felt that smile slipping inside of him, igniting a flame low in his chest.

“He’s not—I mean, he’s not really my Handler. More like my brother, actually.”

She laughed, a shoulder-shaking laugh. “That’s _new_.”

“ _What_?” Sam’s voice tinged high and drawling with humor. “He is! I’m serious!”

“I’ve never met a fighter like you, Sam.” The girl shook her dark hair from her face. “You’re really something else.” She ran her hands down her calves, resting her fingers loosely on her ankles and tucking her chin down on her knees as she peered up at him. “I like that.”

“Well, thanks. I think.” Sam chuckled, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Most Handlers, monsters, too, kinda think I’m a freak.”

“Well, you are a freak.” The girl said, getting to her feet, and Sam felt a prickle of incredulity as he looked up at her. She grinned. “Isn’t everybody, though? We’re all just a bunch of freaks. What’s normal nowadays, anyway?”

Sam’s mouth shrugged down at the corners and she stepped around him, her hand brushing his shoulder briefly.

“Nice meeting you in person, Sam,” She called over her shoulder.

Sam twisted onto his feet and faced her. “Hey! I didn’t get your name!”

She paused and smiled demurely over her shoulder:

“It’s Ruby.”

 


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Six: Bleed For Me

 

            The boys kept the guest room frigid.

            John couldn’t understand it, since he’d always known Dean to sleep in a room so hot he’d have to strip to his boxers, and even then he’d still be sweating. But the rush of the window fan ghosted John’s skin and raised goosebumps when he stepped inside the room, early morning, almost a week after the fight in Rexford.

            Sam and Dean were sprawled on edges of their beds closest to each other, Sam on his stomach with his arms diving under his pillow, mashing it to his face, and Dean on his back, one leg cocked, one arm behind his head. Typical of both of them, and the close proximity too, even at opposite ends of the room. John tried to remembered what it had felt like to dread how affectionate these two were with each other; couldn’t even scrounge the feeling up. Moral quandaries aside, having Sam in their lives added an element of stability that John hadn’t seen for decades before, and didn’t want to lose.

            Arms crossed, he watched them sleeping, a slight smile creasing his face.

            He’d always wanted children; even after his father had almost beheaded him, even knowing that there was the possibility he was something _off_ , something _different_ , because he’d been born of a human mother and a demon father, John had never thought twice about being a father himself. It ran deep, as deep as the blood in his veins, and yet he’d still royally botched the entire subject of fatherhood. On just Dean alone.

            He wasn’t Sam’s father, and John knew it; even if there was a similarity in their proud jaws and angular noses, Sam had been someone else’s freshly-born miracle; the arms of another Hunter had held him safe and secure, long before John had even been aware of Sam’s existence.

            But the young man who’d dragged Dean half-broken home from Nashville, that person, _that_ Sam, was something John had had a hand in creating. Melded in the jangle of keys and the swirl of fists and the way you slowly open a clenched hand, and let go, John was beginning to see Sam the way Dean had seen him all along.

            It alleviated some of the fear, trading it for guilt; but guilt was something that John Winchester considered an old and well-tested friend.

            He moved to Dean’s bed on soundless feet, clapping one hand to his shoulder and the other over his mouth. Dean jerked violently, eyes flashing open, labored respirations spilling over John’s hand until his sleepy eyes made sense of the person standing above him. John released Dean’s shoulder and crooked a finger, motioning him to follow, leading the way out of the room and into the hallway.

            Dean padded out on his heels, yawning and grinding his knuckles into his eye. “What time is it, dad?”

            “Quarter after five.” John faced him in the hallway. “What are your plans with Sam today?”

            Dean looked at him with cock-eyed confusion. “Train, I guess. Oh, n’ Bobby wants us to help him clean up the tool garage, so I guess that’s gonna take a while.” He blinked in the low glow of the hallway light. “Why?”

            John let a smile tease itself onto his features. “I need to borrow you for a couple hours, is why. C’mon, we don’t have much time.”

            “What _for_?” Dean groaned.

            “For something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

            Outside, down the porch steps, and across the yard; John knew where Dean and Sam usually trained, on a grassy verge at the edge of Bobby’s property that wasn’t clotted by cars or random junk. He led the way there, Dean falling in at this shoulder, and John took the time to study his son and to realize, in a belly-deep way, that Dean really wasn’t a wayward byproduct of all the things that had happened to him his whole life: training, prepping to be a Hunter, moving to New York, coming back to Lawrence, finding Sam. Dean was his own man, blue-blooded and reared in fire, and John was _proud_ of him.

            He stopped, at the place where the cars trickled out and gave way to grass, and to the broken-down fence that marked the boundary of Bobby’s salvage yard. Dean shuffled on ahead a few steps, then turned to face John. “What, are we watching the sunrise together? Manly bonding time?”

            “Not exactly.”

            John closed the distance between them, nailed the side of Dean’s leg with his knee and slammed him flat on his back.

            Dean stared up at him, eyes shell-shocked, then reproachful. “ _Ow_!”

            “You always wanted to know what tier four was like.” John offered his hand. “It’s about time I taught you.”

            After a moment of catching his breath, Dean smiled lopsidedly, accepted John’s hand and let himself be dragged upright. “Are you serious?”

            “Two months,” John said. “And then you can pass it on to Sam.”

            Dean’s face fell slightly. “Yeah, but…dad, our last Prelim fight is next week. If Sam blows through that, it’s the Leagues. We don’t have that kind of time.”

            The answer to that, John found, was simple, and he had no reservations in saying: “Then the three of us can train together.”

            Dean’s smile returned in blinding force. “Oh, _hell_ yeah.”

            The infectious grin caught on John’s face as well. “All right, listen up…”

            He drilled Dean on the origins of the hybrid fighting style, first; then the different techniques, and sub-techniques, displaying them as he explained while Dean looked on, eyes wide, soaking up the information like he was eight years old again.

            “The most important thing to remember about Muay Thai is how close a line it walks to being illegalized.” John concluded, eyes narrowed against the strips of light stretching across the periwinkle-blue sky. “As far as punches and kicks go, everything is acceptable, for the most part. But the clinches are a real pain in the ass; hook a man wrong and you can snap his neck.”

            “Isn’t that kinda the point?” Dean asked from his perch on the fence. “Y’know, fighting to the death?”

            John shook his head. “Leagues operate differently. The audience isn’t always made up of rabble-rousers looking for a good time. Demons care more about technique than a bodycount inside their arenas, and the audience wants to see someone who can really _fight_ ; not just claw their way through the ranks, but actually use their head.”

            “Which is why Sam’s gonna be a knockout.”

            “Let’s hope. Demons are competitive, they like to steal the techniques that other Handlers use, so Sam’s gonna be in for a challenge.”

            “Is that why you waited so long to show me this?” Dean hopped off the fence. “Stall us out, so Sam couldn’t use this tier in the Prelims and the demons couldn’t buck up a monster to counter him?”

            John flicked a smile. “You wanna train, or not?”

            “Bring it on, old man.”

            John curled one hand over twice. “Let’s start with Savate and work our way up. After Kajukenbo, I want you to try to clinch me, just like I showed you.”

            “You owe me a steak dinner when I kick your ass.”

            And John had to admit, Dean was good; fast, agile, he’d obviously kept on top of his training over the years. But he was adjusting, too, leaving gaps every few paces; because Dean was used to training with Sam, and Sam was three inches taller and narrow than John. When Dean trained with Sam, he was a wrecking ball, a battering ram for Sam to dodge and try to overcome; with John, Dean was suddenly on the defensive, dodging hooks and kicks that would’ve knocked him flat if he’d been a hairsbreadth slower.

            By the time they’d segued through training in the other tiers, Dean was dripping sweat and moving a little slower; it was already heating up under the late-August sun, promising a sweltering day for Sioux Falls, the dirt baking hot under their feet.

            So when Dean moved to clinch him, John was able to break his hold effortlessly and counter with a spinning backfist. Dean caught John’s arm, wrenching it almost out of joint, nailing an elbow slash into his ribs, right where Gordon’s bullet had munched into his side. John steeled himself for the blow, took it on a rush of breath, cocked his arm down hard while he hooked Dean’s feet, flipping him onto his chest. Dean bounded off his scuffed palms, but John put him back down with a curved knee to the hip.

            Dean rolled onto his back, holding up both hands. “All right, all right, uncle, already!” When John didn’t move in for another strike, Dean massaged his skinned palm with the thumb of his other hand. “You’re freakin’ fast.”

            “That’s how it’s supposed to be.” John hauled Dean to his feet for the second time that morning. “You see the difference in technique?”

            “Yeah.” Dean nodded. “Savate’s all about stayin’ quick on your feet, Jujutsu helps you take a guy down quick and easy, Kajukenbo’s about a step above straight-up sparring, and this Muay Thai stuff is just nailing hits. Turns your body into a weapon.”

            “Exactly.” John said. “And everything in Muay Thai will be useful to Sam, as long as he’s careful. That kid’s a weapon to begin with, but making it in the Leagues means having sponsors. To get a human to sponsor you, you have to make it as clean a fight as possible.” He cuffed Dean on the arm. “That’s enough for now. Let’s eat.”

            Dean nodded, his face ashed with mud that made his green eyes pop like sparks. They wandered back toward the house, Dean with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Hey, dad, lemee ask you something.”

            “Be my guest.”

            “How d’you know all this crap about the Leagues? I mean, seriously, you’re like a friggin’ guru.”

            John stopped, and Dean moved past him, then turned back with eyebrows lifted. John leaned his weight against the front fender of the car behind him, folding his arms.

            “What I said about sponsors, Dean…you gotta understand. Leagues are where the richest people still _alive_ will go to see a good show and lay down a bet. They’re looking for a savior, someone who can beat the demons and put an end to this. Sponsors give you money. All I ever wanted was to get _enough_ money to support my family, and then I told myself that was it. I’d be out of the fights for good.”

            “Didn’t really work out, huh?”

            “That’s an understatement.” John rubbed a hand back through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I did my homework. Especially after Lilith offered me a job. The best way to beat your opponent is to _know_ your opponent.”

            “You know mom’s gonna kill us when we make it to the Leagues, right?”

            John rubbed a hand down his face. “I’ve known for a while. She’ll want you to stay home, stay safe. Out of the game.”

            Dean sniffed. “You know I gotta say no.”

            “Yeah, I do. And I know you’re not a child. If nothing else, that suicide mission to Nashville proved that you’re a man who’ll go his own way, regardless of what your mother and I say.”

            Dean’s neck flushed slightly. “So, what, is that permission?”

            “You don’t need my permission, Deano. Do whatever you’re gonna do, and I’ll talk to Mary.”

            Dean joined him by the car, leaning against it beside him, staring out the few yards to the house. “Why’s she got this huge vendetta goin’ against the fights, anyway? Is it just ’cause of what happened between you guys?”

            John tipped his head down, mulling over the memories. “That’s a helluva story to tell, Dean.”

            “I got time.”

            John tugged on a smile, peering up at him under a crinkled brow. “Yeah. Well, I’m not sure how much Mary’s told you about us—”

            “Bupkiss, pretty much.”

            “I’m not surprised.” John rubbed the side of his neck. “My family and hers lived on the same street from the time I was five until I was twelve. Her dad was a Hunter, mine was a drunk. Her momma was strong, independent, just as beautiful as Mary is; mine was a typical housewife in that day and age. She learned her manners through a Betty Crocker cookbook and hated that I wasn’t the perfect son.”

            “So, wait, you and mom _grew up_ together?”

            “Grew into our lives together, is more like it.” John mused. “The first day I met her, I was outside digging for worms in the garden while my father was rantin’ and ravin’ inside. And this little angel walks over in a bright green, I mean, it was a _neon_ sundress with little white daises on it. And she just watches me work, wearin’ this huge floppy-brimmed hat. So I ignore her, thinking she’ll go away, but she just stares at me for a while. And then she walks over and asks me what I’m doing, and when I tell her I’m diggin’ up worms, she looks me in the eyes and says, ‘ _You’re the funniest boy I’ve ever seen, what’s your name?_ ’ So I tell her, and next thing I know she’s laying a kiss right on my lips.”

            Dean burst out with incredulous laughter. “ _Mom_ kissed you. When she was just a rugrat?” He shook his head. “You sly dog. You must’ve been one hell of a player.”

            “I didn’t need to be. Mary didn’t have anyone else her age to be with—even back then, homesteads were few and far between. We just settled in together, grew up for a while, and then my dad packed us up, moved us to Vermont.”

            “Mom stayed in Kansas?”

            “Uh-huh.” John wet his lips with his tongue, the maelstrom of memories almost dizzying him. “’Bout a year later, my father went off the rails. Butchered my mom and tried to do me in. I barely made it out of there in one piece, and I was…I was wrecked. Wound up on my own, joined up with the Marine Corps ’til they fell apart without the funding and leadership. After that, wound up on Mary’s doorstep in the rain, and her family was decent enough to take me in.”

            “Wait a second, your dad tried to ice you? _Why_?”

            The question brought an onslaught of blackened veins, a flicker of dark eyes. John felt a hungry chill prickle his spine, despite the warmth of the early morning. “That’s a story in itself, Dean. Let’s say he wasn’t a good man, and leave it at that.”

            Dean puckered his lips and shrugged. “So, what happened after that?”

            “I lived with Mary’s folks for about fifteen years, huntin’ with her father, until the industry started dyin’ out. I stayed a Hunter, he started Handling. Caused a lot of fights, especially with us bein’ newlyweds at the time. Her mother passed not long after the wedding, and come to find out your grandfather was over his head in debt. I used to lay awake at night and hear Mary on the phone, beggin’ him to quit. She’d stay with him when I was on hunts with Bobby or Elkins, just trying to keep him from drowning.”

            “But he killed himself.” Dean blinked, slow and thoughtful, eyelashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. John hefted a foot onto the fender and cupped his hands around his knee.

            “’Bout a year before you were born. I was in New Hampshire with Bobby when she called me, and I drove straight through to get home. First thing Mary did when I walked through the door was tell me if I ever started Handling, it would be the end of us.” He shook his head. “I should’ve listened.”

            “It’s not like you really had a choice.” Dean stared at the house, peaking in the distance, his hands braced on the hood of the car. “It’s a crap life, but it’s all we’ve got.” He carded one hand back through his hair. “Guess I get where mom’s comin’ from. That stuff screws with your head.”

            “But we’re not all your grandfather, Dean. And not everyone is going down the same way.” John straightened and started for the porch “Just proves my point. Stay your own man, and let the rest of it handle itself.”

            Dean dogged his heels. “You serious about training me and Sam?”

            “Did I sound like I was joking?”

            Dean chuckled. “Better watch your back, old man. Sam and I are gonna stomp you flatter than roadkill.”

            “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

 

-X-

 

            It went further than that.

John had almost five decades of training, and he was a brawler at heart; Sam and Dean were fast, but they were first and second generations of everything John knew, and then some. Rather than starting on Muay Thai, after that first day John drilled them from start to finish, working through Savate, Jujutsu and Kajukenbo all over again. And Dean found that the balance shifted, the scales tipping when it was him and Sam against John; they could usually take him down if they ganged up on him, but that always left him pissed off and coming up spitting when he kneed them off of him.

            “I’m training you to be smart, not brutal. That’s how demons fight.” John swiped the mud from his cheek with one arm. “Sam, when you’re in the Pits, you’ll be facing things you can’t bowl over. Remember, _focus_. Be faster, be smarter than whatever you’re up against.”

            “Yes, sir,” Sam traded his weight from foot to foot, a crystal cord of lightning with chestnut hair slicked back by sweat. “Can we try it again?”

            Dean held back, letting John and Sam square off while he watched, stuttering for breath with his hands on his knees. Sam was still good, almost as good as he’d been before his tour in the Reactor, but his focus was a tangled traffic jam of too many thoughts, all at once. Overcompensating, then second-guessing, then moving in leaps and bounds to catch himself up. The training was supposed to help with that, because John wouldn’t take him up to the fourth tier until he was convinced Sam could keep his head in the game; the same way you wouldn’t give a manic a loaded weapon.

            With Dean watching, they came at each other, moving through seamless patterns of every hybrid style, hooking and flipping and blocking, and they made it look _real_ ; Dean had never considered, really, what training seemed like from the outside looking in. When you were actually the one tussling for control in a sparring match, you didn’t have time to wonder about your form. Seeing John sweep Sam into a headlock, Sam wriggle loose, John shove him down flat on his chest, it was all so much less than staged, and Dean found his body reacting, stiffening, wanting to leap in and help.

            Though, which side he would be helping would have to be decided by where his first punch landed. There were no enemies here, just opposing sides.

            The back door of Bobby’s house butted open against the railing, cracking like a whip through the close, humid air; Dean glanced briefly over his shoulder, and by the time he looked back, it was over, the tables turned.

            John fisted a hand in the front of Dean’s shirt and spun him around, between himself and Sam.

            Everything went deadly calm, Sam breathing hard open-mouthed, staring at them. Dean could feel John’s chest heaving against his back.

            “Uh, dad, what’re you—?”

            “League fights have one other thing you won’t see in the Prelims.” John said roughly. “Referees. And sometimes, you’ll get a monster smart enough to use its head. It’ll pull the ref in as a human shield.” He tugged Dean closer to him, barely an inch of moving space between them. “Make your move, Sam.”

            Sam’s brow hunched down with concentration.

            When he lunged, Dean couldn’t help his reactive flinch; Sam’s hand clamped on John’s wrist, the other moving for the back of Dean’s head, shoving it down when John snapped experimentally, showing Sam what a vampire might do when cornered in this situation. Sam reacted, anticipated, inhumanly fast, backhanding John in the face, ripping his hand off of Dean’s chest and broadshouldering Dean out of the way. Dean went staggering, knocked to his knees when Sam swung John around, their hips colliding, and when he fell, John fell with him, bowed over Dean’s legs. Sam landed sprawled across John’s chest

            “Oh, _crap_!” Dean howled. “What’d you guys eat for breakfast, _rocks_?”

            “Dean, that’s a horrible thing to say!” Mary’s voice had them all looking up, to the place where she wound through the collage of cars to join them. “Bobby’s pancakes weren’t _that_ bad.”

            “Hi,” Sam said, sheepishly, bracing himself on his elbows, still hunkered over John and Dean.

“Hi, there.” Mary crouched beside them. “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen you three in a dogpile this week, we could move back to Kansas.”

            “We’re rich in all the wrong ways.” John smacked Sam genially on the ass, the only part he could reach. “Offa me, Sam.”

            Sam laughed and rolled to his feet, giving John an arm up, then Dean.

            “Thanks,” Dean snarked, dusting himself off. “Next time I wanna bench four hundred pounds with my legs…”

            “Hey, I saved you from the vampire,” Sam pointed out, his eyes following John as he went to greet Mary, their heads bent close together.

            “Yeah, how’d you know he was gonna try to, uh,” Dean snapped at the empty air for emphasis, and Sam pocketed his hands with a high shrug.

            “Just a guess. I guess.”

            “You guess—?”

            “He _what_?” John’s deadly-calm voice cut them both off, brought their eyes swinging toward him and Mary, standing a few feet away. Mary was nodding with grim resignation.

            “Bobby took the call.” She said, by way of some explanation. “He told Gordon he didn’t know where you were, but that he’d pass that message along.”

            “Wait, _Gordon_?” Dean joined them, Sam at his side. “What the hell is he calling _Bobby_ for?”

            “Looking for us.” John’s eyes never left Mary’s face. “He made a challenge to Sam. Outright.”

            “What, you mean like _Lilith_ did, in that newspaper?” Sam demanded.

            “More or less.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “You said he was gonna be in New Orleans?”

            “Mmhmm, that’s what he told Bobby.” Mary nodded. “New Orleans, this Saturday, and he wants Sam to fight the Duchess. Winner-takes-all.”

            “He’s been waiting for this,” Dean growled. “Waiting for _Sam_ to match his forty-nine, so he could have his huge macho showdown.”

            “Well, he’ll get it.” Sam said. “I’m in.”

            Dean and John exchanged a loaded glance, and then John cleared his throat. “We could find an easier fight for your fiftieth, Sam.”

            “No, we couldn’t.” Sam insisted. “Because anyone who catches on to where I am, they’re gonna send every monster they’ve got after me. I’d rather face the Duchess than _God knows_ how many other monsters. Or what _kind_.”

            “He has a point.” Mary arched one eyebrow slightly. “It’ll be bad no matter where you go, John.”

            “We’ve been holding clear of Gordon for months.” John pointed out. “And now you want to meet him on his own turf, Sam?”

            “Yes, sir.” There wasn’t a trace of doubt in Sam’s voice. “That’s the Winchester way of doing things, right?”

            “Yeah, a chronic case of suicide.” Dean said, but he couldn’t repress a sizzle of excitement that started in his belly. “Well, like I said, I’m with ya all the way, Sam. So if we’re gonna go in, let’s go in swingin’.”

            “I agree.” Sam said quickly.

            “Sounds like I don’t have much of a say.” John slid a glance toward Mary. “New Orleans it is.”

            “Maybe we can get some payback.” Dean cracked his knuckles, his thoughts divided between Kansas, _Maggie_ , and here, _John_.

            “Let me make one thing clear.” John said, and his steely tone brought Dean to attention. “If you boys are dead-set on being in this fight, they we’re gonna do it like professionals. I don’t want to hear about any backdoor brawls, or see you two show up at the car with black eyes. You treat Gordon like any other low-bellied son of a bitch, until this fight is over. Understand?”

            Sam and Dean traded a glance; and Dean could understand it, could see it from John’s perspective. If they managed to pull this fight out of the bag, then they’d be looking at the Leagues. And from what John had told him, Leagues lived and breathed on a different level, with statutes of conduct that the Pits couldn’t even hold a candle to.

            But there was another part, loyal, and protective, that smoldered with anger at the thought of Gordon being let off the hook for everything he’d done. For murdering Maggie Robertson, for almost killing John, for stealing Dean’s dogtags.

            And he was supposed to stand by and let Gordon go, if it came down to it; watch him walk away with a clear pass to the Leagues.

            “What happens if we lose?” Sam asked, suddenly. “We can just sign up for a different Pit and take down Gordon in the Leagues, right?

            John’s face shaded with an ugly kind of anticipation. “This is where the system gets out of hand. They say the higher you climb, the harder you fall?” He swept his gaze from Dean to Sam and back again. “You lose the fiftieth fight, they scratch your record. You start over from the bottom.”

            Sam’s face twitched, trying to smile, trying to play if off as a joke. “You’re _kidding_ me.”

            “Why didn’t you tell us this _before_?” Dean snapped. “That means every damn thing we’ve done in the last _year_ is hanging on this _one fight_!”

            “That’s exactly _why_ I didn’t tell you, Deano.” John’s tone was measured, level and quiet. “I didn’t want that pressure on you, or on Sam. I needed to keep you both sharp, with your heads in the game.”

            “Then why tell us _now_?” Sam’s voice was soft, his face was soft, introspective.

            “Because you need to understand why Gordon’s been holding back.” John explained. “He’s betting the whole pot on this fight, too. So if he’s willing to call Sam out, that means the Duchess is ready. Damn ready. She’s not gonna be easy to take down, and you need to be prepared for that, Sam.”

            Dean saw Sam’s throat heave as he swallowed. “Dean. Can I talk to you for a second?”

            Mary, who’d stayed quiet and vigilant as they traded verbal spars about the upcoming fight, laid a hand on John’s arm. “We should see what Bobby’s plans are. Maybe he can help.”

            John nodded. “We’ll see you two inside.”

            Dean followed Sam a few yards deeper in to the rich, high grass before Sam looped around to face him, hands perched on his hips, jaw jutting with frustration.

            “He should’ve told us.”

            Dean’s own volatile irritation collided with Sam’s in a nova burst. “Yeah, well, he didn’t. Not much we can do about it right now. Like it or not, we’ve gotta take Gordon’s bitch down, or this whole thing blows up in our faces.”

            “ _We_?” Sam snapped. “Last time I checked, you weren’t gonna be in the ring, Dean. If we lose this fight, if we lose _everything_ , that’s on me.”

            “Yeah, and if we win?”

            Sam’s eyes tightened at the corners and he looked away.

            Dean snorted. “God, you just can’t take credit for the good stuff, can you? It’s all about things getting screwed up, not how we _fix_ ’em.”

            “You heard what John said. This vampire’s a badass, Dean.”

            Dean punched him lightly on the shoulder. “So are you.”

            Sam stepped back. “Fight me.”

            And because Dean felt he was finally beginning to understand, fundamentally, why Sam did the things he did, Dean solidified his stance:

 “Your move, pal.”

 

-X-

 

They drove through the French Quarter exactly one year to the day since Dean had first pulled Sam from the Snatcher nest in Kansas.

Bobby wasn’t with them for this fight; John had talked him into staying with Mary, just in case Gordon decided to pull a trick under the table to distract them from the fight. It was just Dean and John and Sam, the way it had always been, scrunched into the front seat of the truck together; Dean driving, and Sam on the other window because being in the middle gave him motion sickness.

This city hadn’t seen as much decay as others they’d fought in; in fact, it was limping back to life, the cobbled walkways surging with spectators all moving in the same direction. Beaded fairy-lights were strung between stunted trees fleshed out with leaves, throwing dappled reflections across the Impala’s sleek hide and through the windows.

Dean glanced away from his reflection, across the seat, shoving the hood of his sweatshirt off his head. “You good, Sammy?”

Sam was sitting up with his spine pressed into the seatback, fidgeting, legs jumping, hands pulling together. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

A converted boutique, ground-level in the dead center of the French Quarter, served as the Pit, clustered with cars on both sides of the street. They drove half a block past, until John told him to park, and they circled back around on foot. Dean didn’t ask, but he suspected it was as much to hide their presence from Gordon as it was anything else. He kept an eye turned down every sidestreet they passed, catching no glimpses of Gordon’s piebald truck or his vintage car, and deciding that was probably for the best.

Across the street from the Pit, with a garish, converted sign potbellied over the low-slung entryway, John threw out an arm to stop both Sam and Dean, a groan rumbling in the back of his throat. “ _I should’ve known_.”

Dean recognized the oily-haired demon check-in with a prickle of annoyance. “Oh, great. Last thing we need.”

“It’s okay.” Sam assured him. “It’s just Crowley.”

“ _Just_ Crowley?” The demon hollered across the street, and Sam stiffened, his bottom lip etching back and forth slightly. “You want to bring your ridiculously well-toned hindquarters over here and say that again, Sam Winchester?”

Dean sighed. “Aw, great, Sammy, you pissed him off.”

They crossed the street, dodging traffic and meeting Crowley’s flint-hard glare on the far sidewalk, just under the wrought-iron sign.

“Where are your manners, you puppy-faced blight of nature?” Crowley drawled, his thick accent making the words almost a tease rather than an insult. Sam bristled, and Dean smacked him on the chest with the back of his hand.

“Who’s the blight of nature?” He demanded. “I heard from Lilith that you freaks all have some kinda superpowers, but, man, you must’ve gotten the short end of _that_ stick. Who wants to be a demon’s bitchboy clerk?”

Crowley stared at him with round-eyed deadly calm. “You’d be surprised what exactly it is that I am capable of.” He leaned forward, tapping his fingers languidly on the tabletop. “More to the point, I enjoy my job. It gives me a divine opportunity to observe who, exactly, has come to pay their dues. Like your boy here.”

“Yeah, dream on, chuckles.”

“Dean.” John threw in, cautioning, and Dean wrangled himself quiet, looking away. “Crowley, is Gordon Walker here yet?”

There was a beat of silence, and then Crowley sat back. “No. Hasn’t checked in. But a little birdie tells me he’ll be a last minute attendee. And by last minute, I mean…” He held two fingers a quarter inch apart. “Very. Last. Minute.”

“How come?” Sam asked, seeming to decide that his curiosity was more important than his anxiety around a demon.

“Protective measure. After what he did to our family.” John said, dryly.

“In case we decide we want some payback,” Dean added, his blood boiling at the unfair fact that he couldn’t really do a damn thing against Gordon Walker, not with everything that hung in the balance.

“Precisely. Now,” Crowley turned a clipboard to face them. “Your John Hancock, if you would, scruffy.”

Dean fought down the urge to laugh when Sam looked at him questioningly, like he thought Crowley was talking to _him_ withthat ridiculous nickname; kid really did need a haircut, his bangs had turned long and sweeping, taking on a life of their own.

John scrawled his hasty signature and made the bet: two thousand, five hundred dollars. Everything they’d made in Rexford, with people slinging money like fighting words and dares. Everyone wanted a piece of Sam.

“Who else are we looking at in there, Crowley?” John asked.

“Considering the wonderful workaround created by Walker, your boy will be facing two monsters, and two monsters _only_.”

Dean felt Sam breathe out a sigh of relief, ghosting the back of Dean’s neck. “What about the Duchess?”

“She’ll be one of them, mate. Everyone and their great uncle knows there’s a showdown here tonight, and they all want to be a part of it.” His voice was conspiratorially wispy with anticipation. “You’re a superstar.”

“Winchester.” Sam said. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

“Come on, you two.” John took their card from Crowley. “Holding pens?”

“Won’t be any tonight. Four monsters aren’t much of a threat. Especially with one as civilized as…your _Sam_.” He stressed the last words into derision, and Sam tensed, rocking forward on the balls of his feet.

“ _Enough_ ,” John barked, and that single word settled Sam again. “Let’s go.”

Inside, the boutique had been swept clean, deeper than it was wide, with a low ceiling and one counter along the left-side wall, where people were milling around, free of the crush of bodies. In the center of the room, the ceiling had been carved out, opening a skylight to the apartment above. Clusters of patrons were gathered up there, too, leaning against the wrought-iron railing, and the rich, beading scent of alcohol wafted down from the gap in the roof.

“Just four fighters,” Sam murmured, sliding into step with Dean through the bombardment of bodies.

“I’m surprised there are that many,” John said grimly. “Like Crowley said, Gordon’s been spreading the word. No one is stupid enough to put their fighters up against you and the Duchess.”

“Lucky us,” Dean tilted his head up, catching the eye of a girl in a short, sequined dress on the upper floor. She waved at him coyly, and he winked back. “Means you’re gonna be more on your game when you fight the Duchess.”

“Yeah, assuming I don’t get my throat ripped out by whatever I’m fighting first.” Sam said with his characteristic hangdog smile.

“You’ll be fine,” John said with a perfunctory glance Sam’s way. “Any sign of Gordon yet?”

Dean turned a complete circle to glance behind them and thought, just for an instant, that he caught a glimpse of dark skin through the crowd; then decided that wasn’t enough to go on. “Can’t tell.”

“In any case, stay close.” John cuffed Dean on the back of the head. “And we’re here to work, not play, Dean. You can flirt with the girl upstairs _after_ the fight.”

Dean rubbed the offended patch of his bristly hair and grinned. “Gotcha.”

The Pit differed from most that Dean had seen, in that it seemed to capture the heart of New Orleans in its construct: wrought iron, spear-tipped bars formed the boundaries of the ring, the top open to the skylight of the second floor. Strands of wrapped lights snaked up the bars in a Christmas-tree glow; it was festive, the whole atmosphere bubbling on the edge of effervescent, like revelry was waiting to burst through the seams and substitute the fight.

Except that eyes were following Sam; eyes, and bodies, turning toward him like magnetic force as he passed. Word must have spread fast since Rexford, because none of the faces reflecting back at them registered shock; all Dean could see was hunger, a canine, bloodthirsty lust for the battle. They knew the Duchess; they knew Sam. They knew that both parties would deliver.

Dean didn’t like it; hadn’t liked Rexford, and this sat even worse, hard and rocky, chafing his insides. Before Portal, before they’d crossed paths with Jo and Ellen on the circuit, Dean had been suffocated by an identity crisis that swirled around the fights, the Pits, around Sam and, in a way, Chelsea and Maggie.

Now Sam was all that was left of that equation, the bottom line, the sum of all things. And he was factoring himself out by putting his neck on the chopping block, just to give them a shot at Lilith.

Dean was a hypocrite; he knew it, and in sideways glances and unspoken words, John and Mary knew it, too. Sam knew it. After nine months of holding Sam’s head under in the fights, the whole premise ratcheted up Dean’s protective side, made him want to put himself between Sam and every sweeping eye in the room.

But this was Sam’s choice; Dean had taken his hands off the steering wheel, let Sam grab on instead; and now Sam was steering the car straight on into the same dead-end they’d been cruising a-hundred-miles-an-hour toward for a year.

Dean nudged Sam. “Hey. At least you’re not back in that Snatcher hellhole, right?” Trying to lighten the mood, to take Sam’s mind off of what was coming.

Sam stared up, as they shoved their way toward the cage, his eyes tracing the spires that tipped the bars. “Yeah. Right.”

They reached the door, deadbolted with a heavy iron chain, and Dean saw Sam swallow, his throat lurching with the motion.

Brave or not, determined or not, Sam had his limits like any other living being.

Dean brushed shoulders with him. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Don’t go far,” John called after them, a kneejerk reaction to the knowledge that Gordon was somewhere close by. Dean kept an eye open, ducking under the shadow of the second floor, behind one of the buttresses that wound itself into the upper railing. Sam crossed his arms and leaned against the pillar, head cocked slightly.

“What’s up, Dean?”

“All right, listen.” Dean forced himself to focus on Sam, to stop scanning for Gordon. “I don’t want you distracted in there, wonderin’ if I’m gonna pull the plug on you. So this is me promising not to do anything drastic unless that bitch has her pearly-whites sunk to the gums in your throat. Okay?”

“Even then, Dean, we can’t risk it. You heard what John said, this is our one chance, and we can’t start—” He broke off, his voice twisting into a rictus of regret. “ _I_ can’t do this again, Dean. Starting over from the _Qualifiers_?”

“I know, Sammy. I know.” Dean pitched his voice low, catching a few curious stares angled their way. “Look, if push comes to shove, I’ll get us out of it. That’s the beauty of improv.”

“Yeah?” Sam’s beat of laughter was off-kilter, not hysterical but not entirely composed. “What are you gonna do, set the Pit on fire?”

Dean rolled his eyes up and to the side slightly, weighing the possibilities, pushing his lips out thoughtfully.

“ _Dean_.” Sam hissed. “You’re _not_ gonna _set the Pit on fire_.”

Dean waved away the protest. “Look, I’ll figure somethin’ out. You just worry about keeping yourself alive out there, all right?”

“Easier said than done.” Sam shook his head, shrugged out of his hoodie and handed it to Dean.

Before Dean could muster a reassurance, the announcer’s voice blared over hidden speakers, welcoming the crowd to the French Quarter of New Orleans. Dean and Sam pushed their way back in to join John by the Pit; he met them halfway there in a rush of leather jacket, his voice bracketed with tension.

“Gordon’s here.”

Dean followed John’s gaze, through the slatted bars and toward the Handler on the far side; Gordon stood tall and immobile, eyes fixed on the announcer on the upper floor. By his side, a girl around Mary’s height was hunched almost on all fours, rubbing her charcoal-dark arms spasmodically. Dean recognized her angular features with a jolt of unpleasant memory, and cleared his throat.

Sam glanced at him, then followed his gaze to their opponents, stationed across the ring. “Is that the Duchess?”

            “In the flesh.” John traded his glare from Gordon to his monster. “Hell of a set of teeth on that girl.”

            “Looks like it.” Sam’s voice was tight and unhappy, his gaze riveted on his opponent. John’s focus broke, shifting to Sam, reading him in seconds: the whorl of his forehead, the squint of his eyes, the hunch of his head and the curve of his back. John gripped Sam’s shoulder, gave him a small shake.

            “Eyes on me, Sam.” When Sam’s gaze snapped to him, instantly alert, John shifted closer to him. “The Duchess is fast. Fastest vampire I’ve ever seen in the fight. You _do not_ try to outrun her, understand me?”

            “Yes, sir.” Sam’s head bobbed a confirmation.

            “Then what’s the strategy?” Dean asked, moving to stand at Sam’s shoulder.

            “Usual plan would be to corner her. Pin her down, get her in a chokehold and put her under. Or break her neck.”

            “Breaking a vampire’s neck is like snapping a friggin’ tree branch with your bare hands, dad. Those things are built outta somethin’ else.” Dean pointed out.

            “I know. That’s why the countdown is your best bet.” John said, his head picking up and turning as the announcer descended a staircase at the far end of the room that joined the floors together, and moved to unlock the cage door; the cheers of the audience masked whatever words he was trying to slip in edgewise. “Make it count, Sam.”

            Sam nodded, shot Dean a tentative sideways smile, then stepped past the announcer, into the cage, head ducking against the uproarious excitement of over two hundred people packed on two levels of the Pit, slobbering for the show of his blood staining the floor of the cage.

            The hair on Dean’s arms stood at attention as a short, round-faced Handler loosed his fully-turned werewolf into the Pit after Sam, banging the door shut and looping the chain between the bars. At first, Dean thought it was the reminder of Chelsea that made goosebumps rear across the flesh of his back; then he realized it was that _watched_ feeling, the same that had dogged his footsteps in snatches for months back in Kansas.

            Gordon wasn’t watching the fight; he was watching Dean, with that same stoic, hungry expression that he’d pinned on the announcer. When their eyes met, Gordon’s top lip curled in a feral grin, and he cocked his fingers into the crude imitation of a gun, rocking his temple against it.

            Dean flashed a humorless smile back, and flipped Gordon off with both hands.

            The motion didn’t go unnoticed by Sam; when the werewolf hooked a clawed hand to his side, whirling Sam onto his chest on the concrete floor, he landed with his face inches from the bars; inches from Gordon and the Duchess. Sam boosted himself back to his feet, pointed to his eyes, then jabbed his thumbs into his chest; a clear challenge. _Watch me_.

            Appreciative hollering buoyed Sam as he turned back to the werewolf, and Dean shrugged when Gordon’s eyes flew back to him; tongue poking out, eyes crinkling at the corners. _That’s my boy._

The werewolf was strong, mindless and desperate to sink its talons into Sam’s chest, to feast on his heart. Sam, on the other hand, was focused, a whirring machine of moving parts, ducking and sliding, always a step ahead. They must’ve paid the werewolf’s Handler, Dean mused, to plug that thing into this fight; just for the element of anticipation, just to add a flavor of surprise. Sam’s theatrics were the only thing engaging the crowd as he slipped around behind the werewolf, again and again; the way he’d staked his challenge right in Gordon’s face was an added bonus. Not only did it make Dean proud, it made him feel cocky. Invincible.

            There wasn’t much Gordon could do in the Pit, anyway.

            The round against the werewolf was over the second Sam stopped letting it run itself ragged; he closed the distance, catching a cheekful of vicious claws but never slowing down. His knee pummeled the werewolf’s solar plexus, and then he grabbed it by its shoulders, rammed it against the cage bars and raised his fist for a punch; froze.

            The werewolf and semi-human Sam locked eyes, breaths mingling.

            Sam snapped its neck instead.

            While the chatter of the assembly squeezed itself through the cage bars, the announcer unlocked the deadbolt and let Sam out, let the portly handler in to claim the body of his monster before somebody else could. Pressing his forearm to his bleeding cheek, Sam joined Dean and John by the cage.

            “Why’d you change your mind?” Dean asked.

            “You should’ve felt the ribs on that thing, Dean.” Sam said. “Who _knows_ how long ago it actually had something to eat.” He shook his head. “Putting it down was better for both of us.”

            Dean felt, suddenly, like he was seeing the fights from a different angle; through Sam’s eyes, through the eyes of the creatures who actually fought, who faced each other. There was more to it than just finishing off your opponent; if you had a clear head, if you could think, move past the gleam of sweat and racing hearts, there was an honor code. There was mercy. There were some things that even monsters didn’t deserve.

            But then—sliding a sidelong glance toward Sam—Dean had known that for a long time now.

            When Gordon sauntered to the cage door, there was a riot of clapping, the bloodlust less disguised, like someone had cut the rope. While the people enjoyed Sam’s footloose fighting style, there was a respect that came to the fact that Sam was a clean fighter. Dean had a feeling this vampire queen wasn’t exactly so forgiving.

 Gordon slipped the leash off the Duchess and she careened into the ring, putting her back to one of the walls; she was already panting, saliva running from the corner of her mouth. She backhanded it away, staring hungrily at the Changeling that was thrust into the ring. Couldn’t have been much older than ten, shivering and scared, staring at the Duchess. And even though Dean _knew_ the thing didn’t have a form of its own, that it was just replicating somebody else’s child, it gave him that fingernails-down-his spine feeling, reminding him of just how gritty and dirty and _wrong_ the Pits could get.

Because everybody else was cheering; everybody else _wanted_ this show. Child or not. Either they were desensitized or, as Dean suspected, they just didn’t give a damn anymore. And he didn’t know which was worse.

The fight was over faster than Sam’s, faster than almost any fight Dean had seen before; and this, having watched Sam grab a lumbering Kelpie, flip it over and punch it unconscious in less than a minute.

The Duchess skated around behind the Changeling in two long strides, gripped its throat from behind, and sank her teeth into its jugular.

Blood sprayed and the Duchess went down feeding, pinning the child’s body beneath her weight. Dean looked away sharply, toward Sam; saw that the fear had left his face, his eyes, his body, turning him into a tight wire of anger.

“This is sick.” Dean muttered as Gordon took his time unlocked the cage door, letting himself in, yanking the Duchess off of the dead body.

“This is the life you thought you wanted, Dean.” John said, but there was no accusation in his tone; just hollow regret. “No sane man _wants_ this life, for himself or for his children. Even for his enemies.”

Dean figured that the smirk on Gordon’s face didn’t make him a sane man.

The Changeling’s Handler, a robust, well-endowed woman with inflated lips and squinted eyes, lugged the body out and cradled it in her arms with surprising gentleness.  Dean found himself wondering what the story was; if she’d lost her own child, if a mother Changeling had planted this one in her life thinking she’d be the last person to become a Handler. And now here they were and it would be like losing her kid all over again.

On the other hand, she’d put the thing in a fight against the _Duchess_ , so maybe she didn’t care at all.

Or else she’d wanted the kid to fight Sam, knowing there’d be mercy.

 _Erruki_.

Dean slid one hand around the cage bars, the lights scoring bright-red through his veins.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve all been waiting for; the real pomp and circumstance of the night, the reason we have, with us, from Chicago, Illinois, the demon’s crowning champion and up-and-coming Handler, Meg Masters—”

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean snarled.

Sam craned his head, studying the crowd. “ _Where_?”

“The showdown of a lifetime…in it to win it for the gold star…”

“I don’t see her! Dean!” Sam turned a complete circle and Dean grabbed the front of his shirt, giving him a shake.

“Doesn’t matter, Sam. Look at me! They’re here ’cause whoever wins is taking on the Leagues. First time. It’s a big freakin’ deal for these yahoos, but it’s not our problem. You hear me? Don’t get distracted!”

“ _Sam Winchester_!” The announcer boomed. “Versus… _the Duchess_!”

“Go on!” Dean gave Sam a flat-palmed shove to the chest. “Go kick it in the ass, Sammy! Don’t let her get the jump on you!”

Sam’s eyes flickered back into focus, and he ducked under the announcer’s arm, into the ring, where the Duchess was cleaning the blood from her fingertips.

Gordon stepped away from the cage, closer to Dean; so close their arms almost touched when he leaned in. “Guess we’ll really see who the better monster is after this one. Won’t we, _Deano_?”

Dean refused to look at him; knew he couldn’t look, and _not_ start a fight. “Yeah, we’ll see.” He felt John, on his other side, shifting; every muscle corded with fury.

The minute the announcer banged the cage door shut, something snapped; the Duchess launched herself galloping at Sam, so fast Dean barely saw her move. Sam pulled away at the last second, ramming his back against the cage bars, spinning sideways, out of her reach. 

The Duchess wheeled on a dime— _too fast_ —barreling into Sam’s legs, buckling him against the wall. Her teeth slashed wildly for his throat, but he caught her by the jaw and forehead and planted a kick in her gut that rolled her across the cage floor.

By the time she recovered, spitting her excess saliva, Sam was back in control, on form, shifting his weight lightly from the balls of his feet to his heels, ready to move at the first subtle cue of the vampire’s body language.

With a snarl that was undecipherable above the jeers and hooting of the crowd, the Duchess plowed back in; snapping for the brachial artery in Sam’s arm, missing when he drove the heel of his hand into her chin. Her teeth scraped against his shoulder instead, tearing strips in his shirt, and she fell back for half a second.

She went for his leg next; femoral. Sam barely slid out of her reach in time, escaping with a catch in his stride, clapping his hand against a subtle stain of blood spreading across his jeans.

And Dean realized that the nicks and jabs were the whole point; not to tear Sam’s heart out off the bat, but to wear him down. Let his blood run electric with adrenaline. Better food, better strength for the Duchess. Because in her mind, a predator’s mind, she was going to drink him dry and that was it.

The scent and sight of Sam’s blood frenzied her; the Duchess dove in, gripping Sam’s heels and yanking his feet straight out from under him. He crashed back against the cage bars, his eyes rolling briefly as his skull glanced off the iron. John flinched violently and Dean wove his hands into fists. Beside him, Gordon let out one long, low chuckle.

Sam shook his head, his hair slapping his cheekbones, sitting up; then smashed flat again, with an audible gasp of lost breath, as the Duchess sprang on his chest. She plunged her head down into his shoulder, and Dean heard the sick, wet tearing sound of raw meat.

            “Sam—” He lurched forward and John grabbed his arm.

            Sam’s free hand cocked up, nailing a punch into the Duchess’ hip that tipped her off balance. Sam rolled them both until he was on top, shoving her face into the floor; into his blood.

            She went frantic, scrabbling to get free, and with his wounded shoulder Sam lost the advantage. The Duchess slithered loose and wrapped herself around Sam’s back, holding him to his knees, her teeth diving for his throat.

            It wasn’t Dean who reacted, though he wanted to, though his mind was running through the possibilities already. But John knew the vampire, had watched her fight many times before; had lost a fighter to her.

            John flipped out his pocket knife, pressed it to the crease of his arm, and drew a single long streak up to his wrist.

            “Dad, what the _hell_?” Dean howled, but John moved away from him, slamming his hand against the cage bars.

            The Duchess lifted her head, and Sam followed her gaze, dazedly.

            Saw John, standing there.

            Saw the blood.

            Everything.

            “ _No_!” Sam’s snarl was furious, denial fashioned into a word, given a voice. He reached back with his good arm, grabbed the Duchess by her throat, ignoring her teeth, and peeled her off of him. He shoved his hand into her mouth, hooking his fingers into the brace of her jaw, and yanked, hard.

            There was a sick, audible pop, and the Duchess started screaming, as much as she could with a brutally dislocated jaw.

            Sam held her down, ten seconds, the roar of the onlookers so loud it made Dean feel deaf. It was amazing that Sam looked up at John’s quiet, “Sam.”

            John held out the knife, and Sam stretched out his hand; cold steel, passing the torch. In a few broad strokes, Sam sawed off the Duchess’ head.

            The cheering stopped like the air had been sucked from the room; when Dean looked over his shoulder, Gordon had vanished.

John faltered against the cage bars, pressing a hand to the shallow cut that was bleeding profusely. Dean crowded him, added the pressure of his grip.

“Are you outta your mind?” He snapped. “Lusiver almost _killed_ Sam, doin’ that! The hell were you thinkin’?”

“I know how Gordon and Martin trained her.” John’s voice was rough with pain. “They trained her on fresh blood. The fresher it is and the more direct from the heart, the more she’ll want to drink it.” He twitched a smile. “Better than burning the Pit down.”

Dean felt his neck flush warm. “Shut up.”

Sam staggered to his feet, gripping his shoulder as the announcer’s cry of, “ _I don’t believe it—standing before us, with a little help from his Handlers, if you can believe it_ —” sweltered through the room. Dean glanced at John.

John jerked his head. “Go get him.”

Dean was already moving, swiping the key off the announcer’s upraised hand and unlocking the door right when Sam reached it. He slid the chain out and flung it wide, catching Sam he fumbled, one hand against his chest.           

“Hey-hey-hey! You good?” Dean demanded.

“I’ll be fine.” Sam peeled back his sticky hand from the rut in his shoulder. “How’s dad?”

Dean didn’t even comment on Sam’s term. “He’s a crazy son of a bitch, but he’s got a good aim. He’s not gonna bleed out.”

Sam’s head hung. “Thank God.” Then he looked up, quickly, eyes shadowing with doubt. “Did we still win?”

Dean shrugged. “There’s no rulebook for the Pits, Sam. If Azazel can rattle some keys and rattle your oversized head, then, yeah, I think no holds barred is kinda the idea.”

Sam’s face blanched, and that put Dean on edge.

            “Here.” He shoved Sam’s hoodie into his hands. “Put this on.”

            Sam struggled into it as the announcer turned toward him. Light from the second floor fell in a wash over Dean and Sam.

            “Standing before you now, our very first fifty-count winner of any Preliminary circuit— _Sam Winchester_!” The man boomed. “We will see you in the Leagues of _Salt Lake City_!”

            The cheers that detonated were loud enough to shake the windows on both floors; Sam shot a grin toward Dean, a look full of childlike wonder. A full year later, days of training, fights won and last and all of the terror of the Reactor, separation, John’s anger, _everything_.

            And they’d made history. That scared, scrappy _kid_ from the Snatcher nest, who’d saved Dean’s life. _He’d made history._

            “M’proud of ya, Sammy.” Dean said.

            “Yeah, thanks, I…thanks.” Sam said, breathlessly.

            Dean matched his grin and clapped a hand to the back of Sam’s shoulder, giving him a shake as the world around them shrank to a bubble no larger than the glow of their glory.

           

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Seven: What Ruby Knows

 

           

Sam lost count of the number of back-slaps and handshakes he received

Something about setting a record made people respect you. None of the drunken, slovenly threats and taunts followed him after the fight; just swirls of _Good job, Sam_ , and, _Way to go, Winchester_. And even a few, _Not bad for a monster_. That was his personal favorite.

            Sam didn’t see any sign of Meg Masters, or of Crowley after the fight ended. John patched himself up while Dean stanched the bleeding on Sam’s shoulder and bandaged it with his own shirt. When he was shrugging into his hoodie over bare skin, an attractive brunette tapped him on the shoulder, smoothing one hand down the beaded front of her silver dress.

            “Hi,” She said shyly.

            “Well, hi, yourself.” Dean’s charm flipped into high gear and Sam rolled his eyes at John. “I remember you. Saw you upstairs earlier.”

            “That’s right.” She glanced at Sam, looked almost nervous. Sam’s mouth stretched taught, wrinkling his chin, and he nodded to her. “So, your monster’s a really good fighter.”

            “Tell him that, he’s sitting right _here_.” Dean pointed out, a little sharply, and Sam felt a flush of embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck.

            “Um,” The girl cleared her throat. “Good fighting.”

            “Thanks.” Sam said dryly, shaking his head at Dean.

            The girl looked like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “So, I was wondering…do you wanna get out of here with me? Go for a walk, maybe, and you can tell me all about the fighting thing? I’m kind of _new_.”

            “Take him off our hands. We’d be thankful.” John said, and the girl grabbed Dean’s hand, towing him toward the door.

            “Meet up with you guys at the car!” Dean hollered, following her out.

            “Dean.” John glanced at Sam and they spoke in unison:

            “I need a drink.”

            John chuckled. “I’ll see you around. Stay where it’s crowded; Gordon might’ve run with his tail tucked, but you can never be too careful.” He ruffled Sam’s hair in passing, startling him. “You did good, Sam. Not just tonight. This whole ride’s been a roller coaster, but you stuck it through. I owe you more than I can pay you back for.”

            “You saved my life back there.” Sam pointed out. “I think we’re even.”

            John snorted with quiet laughter, then vanished into the crowd. Sam stretched his lanky body upright and followed him, his mind set on some kind of release to numb the throbbing in his shoulder.

            That was when he caught it: a glimpse of onyx through the sea of lights and sound. The provocative sway of hips that triggered a salty smell in his memory. Sam tucked his elbows in close to his body and shoved through the mass of sweaty skin and raised voices, reaching a break in the crowd that opened a venue straight from him to the dip of the girl’s back, and he grabbed her shoulder. “Hey! Hang on a second—”

            She turned to face him, quick, cat-like, braced for an attack; then straightening and blinking at the sight of his scabbed face. “Sam!”

            “Ruby?” Sam’s voice tipped the word into a question. “What’re you doing here?”

            “You think _anyone_ wanted to miss this fight?” She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “I had to beat an old man with a stick to get through the door. And boy, was it worth it. You kicked ass out there.”

            Sam laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had help.”

            “Yeah, maybe. A _little_.” She rolled her eyes. “But you had it in you the whole time, Sam. I could see it in your eyes. Even _before_ John Winchester pulled a hero stunt, you were just waiting for the right time to get back on top.”

            “I guess.” Sam shrugged, a flush creeping up under his skin. “So, uh, anyway…you’re in town for the fight?”

            “Mostly.” She pressed her broad lips together, and a tingle shot straight down the small of Sam’s back. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”

            She led him up to the top floor, and Sam was surprised by how much the insulated flooring muted the clamor from downstairs; the apartment had been converted into a bar, one wall strapped with a wooden counter where people brushed elbows and arms, swapping out empty glasses for refills and chatting. Mostly, about the fight; Sam heard his name thrown into a few conversations, and ducked his head down low, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

            “Don’t be so modest, Sam.” Ruby chided, scooting toward the bar counter. “You did great. All of this is for you, and believe me, you deserve it.”

            Sam wasn’t sure of that, since the fight hadn’t been clean cut in his favor; but maybe Ruby was right. Maybe he _had_ just been waiting. It felt a little sketchy, a little blurry inside the bloodloss.

            Ruby pushed her way back to him within seconds, a beer in each hand. “Think we can find some place a little more quiet?”

            They did, tucked away at a table in the far corner, mosaic glass and tall, spindly-legged chairs. Ruby popped the top off her beer and held it out toward Sam. “To winning. Against all the odds.”

            “And with some backup,” Sam added, and they clinked their beer bottles together.  Sam took a long pull of his, then wrinkled his nose and suppressed a gag; it had the same bitter, smoky-sweet tang as mustard. He pulled back sharply, coughing into his elbow, and Ruby laughed.

            “Somebody’s not used to quality beer.”

            “Are you kidding? This stuff tastes like _crap_.”

            “That’s pretty rude. I buy you a beer on my own dime, and you insult my taste?” Ruby teased, laughter sparkling in her dark eyes. “See if I ever treat you again.”

            Sam took another sip of the beer, just to placate her, and found that it went down easier than the first. He smacked his lips silently, shook his head, then looked up at her. “So, did the fight live up to your expectations, or what?”

            “Not bad.” Ruby’s tongue traced the open mouth of the bottle, and Sam shifted uncomfortably. “You still went a little easy on that werewolf, though.”

            “I snapped its neck, how is that going _easy_?”

            “That only puts it down for a little while. Until somebody nails a silver bullet into its heart, that thing is just paralyzed. You didn’t do it any favors.” Ruby leaned toward him, spinning the beer bottle from hand to hand. “You know there are ways to put a monster out for good. Or you can hurt them. Pretty badly.”

            “What, like taking a silver knife into a Pit?” Sam demanded, and Ruby shrugged. “Kinda defeats the purpose of clean combat, right?”

            “Look, _they_ have an advantage. _You_ don’t. You’re as good as human, Sam.” She shrugged and leaned back. “Why not raise the stakes a little bit?”

            It rubbed Sam wrong, made his neck prickle. He shook his head, tossing back another swallow of gritty beer, just to give himself time to think. “Doesn’t really matter, at this point. We’re done with the Prelims.” The words sent an aftershock barreling through his chest, kicking his heart into racing speed.

            “What, and you think the demons are gonna fight fair?” Ruby laughed, once, a sharp, unfriendly sound. “Demons _never_ fight fair, Sam. The moves they use would make your hair curl. If you go up against them wearing your morality like a badge of honor, they’ll kick your _ass_.”

            “Yeah?” Sam shot back. “How would _you_ know?”

            “I’ve had my run-ins with those sons of bitches before.” Ruby shook her hair over her shoulder, baring the column over her neck. “Trust me. Their prize-fighters are like gods in a whole sea of insects. They never play by the rules. And that whole boy-down-the-street, goody-two-shoes thing is going to get you killed so fast, your family won’t have time to pick up the pieces.”

            A lick of unease traced its way up Sam’s spine. “So, what? You think I should fight like them?”

            “I think you should fight _back_. You can decide how that looks.”

            Sam turned his head away, then stiffened; froze, completely, inside and out, as Ruby stretched. A spiderweb of dark veins laced up her hip like a tattoo.

            Sam reached across the table, his racing heart kicking into absolute overdrive, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her down close to the table; ignoring her whimper of protest, their noses almost touching.

            “You’re a demon,” He snarled.

            “Let go of me! _Sam_!” She twisted, and he tightened his grip on her.

            “Tell me what you are!”

            “Yes!” She wrestled her voice down to a whisper. “Yes, I’m one of _them_ , okay? I am!” Sam loosed her, and she sat back, touching the heel of her hand to the patch of hair where Sam had yanked. “But I’m not like the rest of them.”

            “Yeah, _right_.” Sam rolled his eyes, shoving his chair back.

            “Sam, stop. Listen to me!” Ruby grabbed his arm, tugging him down. “It’s not like that. I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

            “The last time I crossed paths with a demon, I ended up being Lilith’s punching bag for months. For _months_.” Sam hissed. “So, I’m sorry if I don’t believe you.” But with Ruby staring at him, desperately, Sam found a question bubbling up to the surface. “Did she send you? _Lilith_?”

            “No!” Ruby protested. “Hell, if she knew I was talking to you, she’d probably kill me. You’re supposed to be off-limits.”

            Sam blinked. “ _Off-limits_?”

            “Why do you think you haven’t seen Azazel or Lusiver since you got out, Sam?” Ruby crossed her arms on the table again, leaning toward him. “The only reason you’re not being followed is because Lilith doesn’t _want_ you followed.”

            Against his better judgment, Sam took his seat again, perched on the very edge. “Why not? What’s her angle?”

            “That’s what I was wondering. It’s why I followed you.” She rolled her eyes when Sam straightened. “Okay, _yes_ , I was following you. I was curious.”

            “Why don’t you just ask Lilith?” Sam fused the words with as much contempt as he could manage.

            “Are you kidding? Lilith hates me. She hates _all_ of us.”

            “Uh-huh.” Sam took another sip of beer, skeptical eyes on Ruby.

            “What, did you think all of us demons just sat around a campfire singing _Kumbaya_ in our spare time? It’s not all peace, love and harmony. We may not be a bunch of biblical cockroaches, but we’ve got our problems, too.” She licked her lips, and Sam narrowed his eyes. “Lilith thinks she’s so much better than anyone else out here. Like she runs the show.”

            “Thought she did.”

            “Well, maybe the rest of us don’t _want_ it.” Ruby snapped. “Maybe _I_ want Lilith taken down just as much as you do.”

            “Why? So you can take over for her, become the next Queen Bitch?” Parroting Dean, always parroting Dean, and right now Sam wished he’d asked Dean to come with him. Because the nearness of Ruby, the smell of her skin, the sight of the black branches of her veins were playing havoc with his head.

            “No! Believe it or not, we’re not all a bunch of power-hungry freaks, Sam. Some of us just want to live in peace. And we can’t do that as long as Lilith keeps playing her games. _She_ turned us into the enemy. Before her, fights weren’t a big deal. Maybe people weren’t afraid of us, but we were _happy_. And she ruined _everything_!” Ruby’s voice fractured with the ferocity of feeling. “I want her _dead_!”

            Something in Sam’s chest split, cut loose; he grabbed her wrist, dragged her close again. “You’re lying.”

            “No, I’m not!”

            “Tell me what you’re really after!”

            “I want to help you and your family stop Lilith! That’s all!” Ruby’s tone peaked with something close to panic. “I swear, I’m not lying.”

            Sam had a retort cutting into the tip of his tongue, but a punch of sound from downstairs stopped him; a voice, shrieking, “Oh my _God_ , he’s got a gun!”

            Flying footsteps, more screams; Sam looked over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of bodies cramming past the cage below, some heading outside, others diving back into the shelter of the Pit.

            “What the hell…?’ Sam trailed off.

            “ _Somebody, do something! He’s gonna kill this kid_!”

            “Help! Help him, please!”

            Sam recognized that voice; the padded, soft cry of the girl who’d dragged Dean out the front door.

            _Dean_.

            Sam threw Ruby’s arm back toward her. “Don’t move. We’re not done.”

            He kicked his stool back and scrambled to his feet, moving toward the railing; when he crouched, he could see a narrow sliver of the sidewalk outside the door.

            Could see someone’s back through the glass, broad shoulders wrapped inside a plaid flannel shirt, planting a kick into a dark shape sprawled at his feet.

            His pulse crashing in his temples and wrists, Sam legged himself over the railing and balanced, heels crunched onto the ledge, the toes of his boots jutting over empty air, his fingers wrapping around the iron bar backhanded. He sifted a breath through his nostrils, face scrunching, then leaped; his hand caught the closest spire of the cage and he slid down, rashing his palm open and landing bow-kneed, taking off toward the door.

            “Sam!” The call over his head had him turning, still in motion, and he saw John moving on the upper floor; alerted, like Sam had been, to the commotion outside. John drew something from his waistband, waved it through the air; Sam recognized the handgun he’d taken from Dean in the Reactor. He held his hands up and cupped together and John launched the gun spinning sideways through the air. Sam sidestepped broadly to intercept it, letting it drop straight onto his chest. Clicking the safety off, Sam ricocheted through the swarm of people moving toward the door, feeling irrational hatred for them; not just for being in his way, but for doing _nothing_ , standing by with wide eyes, like sheep prepared for slaughter.

            Watching, heads craning, as Gordon nailed Dean with a kick that tossed him up against the wheelwell of a car parked half-on the curb.

            Gordon, a firearm glinting in his hand, aimed into the creases between Dean’s eyes as he dragged himself onto his knees.

            Sam shoved his way through the last few onlookers and jammed the muzzle of his gun against Gordon’s skull. “Drop the gun.”

            The entire street seemed to freeze on an intake of breath; Dean’s eyes darted from Sam to Gordon, dazed, one arm guarding his ribs.

            Gordon’s back swelled as he took a breath. “I shoulda known—”

            “Damn right, you should’ve.” Sam growled. “ _Drop the gun_.”

            Gordon obliged, the people nearest to them flinching back when the gun bounced off the pavement, like they were afraid it would go off.

            “Now kick it back to me.”

            Gordon’s foot hooked the gun around, and he turned in the same motion, his whole body rotating, his hands catching the barrel of the pistol in Sam’s grasp. Sam let it go, the grip of the gun scraping the road-rash on his palm, and he body-slammed Gordon back into the car, feeling the air gush from his lungs. A jab of Sam’s elbow knocked the gun onto the curb, and then he punched Gordon, just once, a clean strike to the dead-center of his face that slumped him disoriented against the window.

            Sam stepped back, and Gordon slid down until he was sitting, shaking the cobwebs from his eyes. “You touch my brother again and I’ll kill you.”

            There were a few appreciative cheers, and Sam rounded on the crowd. “Don’t applaud me! What the hell were all of you doing?”

            Because he was Sam, because he was the crown prince of the Preliminaries, nobody said anything; they fell back with looks of fear and even guilt in their eyes, as Sam bent double and offered his hand to Dean.

            “I had it under control.” Dean let Sam haul him to his feet.

            “Yeah, I noticed.” Sam’s hand grazed over Dean’s, still guarding his ribs, trying to tug it back for a look. “You okay?”

            “Son of a bitch almost cracked my ribs.” Dean complained. “You coulda showed up a little sooner.”

            Satisfied that Dean’s ego had taken more damage than his body, Sam retrieved his gun. “Thought you had it under control.”

            “I did.” Dean scooped up Gordon’s discarded firearm, holding it up for inspection in the vivid light. “Can’t believe I let him get the jump on me.”

            “Gettin’ slow?” Sam teased, dropping the back of his hand genially onto the top of Dean’s shoulder.

            “Just had other stuff on my mind.” Dean checked for a round in the chamber, then turned under Sam’s hand, resting the barrel of the gun against Gordon’s forehead. “This one’s for my family.”

“Dean!” Sam fisted his free hand in the front of Dean’s shirt, the back of the other still balanced on Dean’s shoulder, moving in and leaning so close that when Dean looked up, their foreheads nearly brushed. “Don’t.”

            Dean’s face twisted with anger. “What the hell is your problem? You know what he did to dad, Sam! The son of a bitch almost killed us both!”

            “He’s not worth it. _Dean_!” Sam wrenched him around, his hand tightening, knotting in Dean’s jacket. “He’s not worth it.”

            There were hundreds of eyes on them, none closer than Gordon’s, staring white and dilated from the losing end of the gun. Dean was breathing with effort, sore, struggling respirations, his pride wounded, his ribs wounded and, more than that, his patience tested by everything Gordon had done to their family.

            “Dean.” Sam insisted, giving him the smallest shake. “He’s nothing without that vampire, and I just killed her. Believe me, he’s not a threat. _Believe me_.”

            “Dean.” John’s voice, from the edge of the crowd, brought both of their heads up. “Sam’s right. Gordon attacked you because he’s got nothing left. He’s done.”

            Dean sniffed, once, sharply, then straightened up and clicked the hammer down, turning away. Sam saw Gordon’s eyes flutter shut as he drew in a deep sigh of relief.

            Dean pistol-whipped him backhand, flinging him against the side of the car; watching as Gordon crumpled on the sidewalk, Dean wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Sam crouched to check Gordon’s pulse, found it still racing under his skin, thready and rapid but Dean hadn’t snapped his neck.

            “Now I’m good.” Dean shrugged his shoulders deeper into his jacket. “Let’s blow this joint. I hate New Orleans.”

            “What about that girl?” John asked as Dean passed him.

            “Not really my type.”

            It wasn’t that, and Sam knew it; Dean was tired, Dean was hurting. And there was nobody, really, to patch up his wounds. He’d let his guard down, and suffered for it; he’d chosen to let Gordon live, going against every moral code he’d been building for twenty-five years: protect the family. Eliminate every threat. Black and white, no shades of gray.

            Sam moved to stand, and a glimmer of brightness against Gordon’s throat caught his eye. Sam hooked a finger around it and tugged Dean’s dogtags loose, and a wave of elation struck him, so powerful coupled with the adrenaline that it almost toppled him. Sam stripped the necklace from Gordon’s neck and turned, but Dean was already gone, and only John was left, watching Sam.

“You heard him,” John murmured. “Let’s hit the road.”

            Sam stood, pocketing the dogtags for a later time. “Just a second. I gotta take care of something.”

            It took him minutes to make it back to the bar, and he was more disappointed than surprised to find Ruby gone. What did give him pause was the napkin left on the mosaic tabletop; a phone number, and a hastily-scrawled note.

            _If you want real answers about us, you know where to find me_.

            “Sam!” John called from below. “What’s the hold up?”

            “Coming!” Sam stuffed the napkin into his pocket and headed for the stairs.

            They drove back to Sioux Falls with Dean massaging his injured side and Sam, quiet, in the backseat; folding the napkin into Origami shapes he’d seen Mary testing out from a book at Bobby’s.

            “What’s that?” Dean demanded once, catching Sam’s restless movements in the rearview mirror.

            “Letter from a secret admirer.” Sam replied flatly, quietly, and Dean didn’t push him. Sam didn’t want him to. Heart still racing, Sam felt damn never invincible, electric, but at the same time insignificantly small in light of what he knew. What he didn’t know. And the revelation that maybe demons were different than he’d come to believe.

            He traced Ruby’s handwriting with his thumb, and wondered if there was something he was missing.

           

-X-

 

            It didn’t hit John until they’d reached Bobby’s house the following day, how much everything was about to change.

            He pulled up to the house in mid-afternoon with both boys asleep; Sam in the back, his head pillowed on one lanky arm, Dean on the bench seat beside John with his breath fogging the glass. John killed the engine and twisted around to watch them; his son, and— _his boys_ , for better or for worse, because after everything Sam really was a part of his life. His boys, and they were standing with him on the edge of a steep, icy precipice, always looking down.

            John didn’t know what lay at the bottom, and it scared the hell out of him.

            He reached over, touched Dean’s shoulder. “Deano.”

            Dean snorted, picking his head up, eyes blinking open. “What’s goin’ on?”

            “We’re home.” John made an effort to keep his voice down, but Sam started to stir, anyway, rolling onto his back with a groan.

            “Ow.” The sound was a brief punch filled with pain, his free hand finding his injured shoulder, and Dean twisted around, immediately alert.

            “Sam?” The single word with a hundred questions underneath it, all of them concerned.

            “Does Bobby have any painkillers?” Sam blinked sleepy, bright eyes at them, and that was a clear sign of how much pain he was in. Sleeping scrunched in the backseat of a car hadn’t done his injury any favors.

            “The man could run a pharmacy out of his basement.” Dean shoved the door open and climbed out; watching him, John noticed he was a little stiff, a little slow, but still as focused and gentle as always, meeting Sam by the flank of the car. Dean checked Sam’s shoulder, sliding a hand under his jacket to probe the wound, then pulling back when Sam winced.

            “How bad?” John asked, perfunctory and low as he joined them.

            “Bleeding again. I’ll take care of it,” Dean motioned with his head, and John and Sam fell in behind him; but at the base of the porch John stopped, one hand on the railing, his foot on the bottom step.

            “You boys head inside. Get some food and some real sleep.”

            Dean shrugged, pushing the door open, but Sam didn’t budge from the stoop. His eyebrows mashed low with concern, his mouth wrinkling at the corners and carving a dimple deep into his cheek. “Everything okay?”

            “I’m just a little tired.” John assured him, though the lie felt acidic on his tongue. “Go on inside, Sam.”

            Dean boxed Sam’s side with an elbow. “Sam, c’mon.”

            Sam went, reluctantly, pushing on ahead of Dean, who glanced back at John with the slightest nod. So John knew, Dean hadn’t missed it; the silence, the reserve. But he was choosing to ignore it, because, really, how else did Winchesters deal with things?

            When the door shut in Dean’s wake, John lowered himself onto the bottom step, flat feet on the ground. He hung his head, ran a hand back through his hair, then smoothed it over his mouth and left it there, staring out over the yard.

            He was a masterful hypocrite, exemplary in the art of living a total lie. For years, he’d been soldiering on toward the ultimate goal of making it through the Leagues: to prove a point, and to support his family. But now that he stood on the cusp of it all, he wasn’t sure it was what he wanted.

            There was a part of him, a screaming, fitful, deluded part, that wanted to take Mary, take Dean and Sam and even Bobby, and run. To escape the eyes of the demons, and whatever horrors were waiting for them in the Leagues. After everything he’d sacrificed, all the days he’d cost with his drive to make it through the circuit in one piece, suddenly, none of it mattered; none of it mattered half as much under the crushing realization that this might be the last time he had his family together.

            Sam could die; the demons could go after Dean and Mary, or Bobby, to distract him. The demons could kill John himself.

            When he was fighting the battle alone, it hadn’t been this difficult; his own mortality had been nestled close at hand since his father’s rampage when John was a child. But with all the people he loved standing beside him, now he had more to lose. More than he could justify in a League fight.

            And abruptly, he found himself standing at opposite ends with Sam; Sam, whom John had forced into Qualifiers, and Prelims, over and over again. For selfish reasons, and he knew it; even to preserve the lives of his loved ones, to provide for them, when it factored down to the bare minimum John knew he’d never really considered Sam.

            And now Sam wasn’t considering Sam, either; he was only seeing them. He only wanted to protect the Winchesters, and Bobby Singer. Not himself. Not anymore.

            Something had broken inside of Sam in the months he had been gone; he couldn’t see himself, John realized, as something to be protected. In some subtle way, he’d come to view himself as a tool. Whether that was a lie Lilith had fed him, or something he’d learned from John, it didn’t really matter; if Sam couldn’t guard his own life, then John was going to do it for him.

            Even if it meant sacrificing everything they’d come so far to achieve; he owed Sam at least that much, and the fight against the Duchess had proven it to him.

            The back door clicked open, and John didn’t have to look back to recognize Mary’s footfalls. Her knee bumped his arm as she perched on the step above him. “What’s wrong, John?”

            John cleared his throat. “Everything go okay while we were gone?”

            There was a beat of silence. “We just played chess. Bobby’s a master.”

            John chuckled, brief and uneven. “I coulda told you that. He used to beat me, nine games out of ten on our weekends off.”

            “ _John_.” Mary’s tone didn’t leave him any leeway. “What’s _wrong_?”

            John’s gaze swept vigilantly over the cars puckering the landscape away from the door, but there was nothing, really, to see. “We finally did it, Mare. We made it to the Leagues.”

            He could feel the unhappiness seeping from her in waves, her knee leaning more heavily against his arm. “You knew Sam had it in him.”

            “Not at first.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been years, Mary. I’ve been tryin’ for this for _years_. And now I’m not sure I want it.”

            “It was your dream.” Mary’s voice was almost breathless with disbelief.

            “No, it wasn’t.” John twisted around on the step to face her. “You were. You and Dean. That was the whole point of this, Mare. I wanted to be man enough to take care of my family. But now that I’m lookin’ at it—hell, I stand more of a chance of losin’ you now than I did thirteen years ago.”

            “I’m not leaving, John.” Mary’s voice was firm though her eyes burned overbright with sadness. “For better or for worse, we’re in this together.”

            “That’s my point.” John said. “Lilith’s got her sights trained on Sam. She changed him, Mare, and I can’t tell how deep it goes. But when push shoves, she’ll go after our weak spots. She’ll arrest Dean. She’ll send her people after you and Bobby. And you remember what Dean told us?”

            “They’re genetic mutations.”

            “Yeah, and only the Colt can kill them. A gun that we don’t have. Which means, if I leave you behind, I’m leaving you completely unprotected.”

            “Do you really think I didn’t know what I was stepping into, when I agreed to meet you in Kansas?” Mary demanded. “I knew exactly what was going on, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself. You are _not_ alone, John. You’re not the only one fighting for this, to keep our family together.”

            “We can find another way.”

            “Dean tried. He’s _been_ trying, John. But this isn’t just about the money anymore. Maybe we could’ve just taken that much and run with it six or eight months ago. But now it’s personal. For all of us, and especially for Sam and Dean. After everything that’s happened, you’re right: those demons will _never stop_. And if the only way to make sure we’re safe is to meet them head-on, and beat them at their own game, then I’ll stand behind you.”

            John slanted an incredulous glance her way. “After everything, huh?”

            She snagged his chin in her grip, holding his gaze with hers. “You are _not_ the man my father was, John Winchester. It’s taken me a long time to see that, but it’s better late than never. You’re a stronger, better man than he ever was. What he did for prestige, you do for family. He drove himself senile trying to find something to fight for, something that _you_ already have.”

John slid a hand around the back of her neck, leaning his forehead against hers. “Scares the hell outta me, what we’re up against, Mare. I never let myself think about it before today, but, yeah. We’re in over our heads with this one.”

“Then that’s all the more reason to stay together.”

They stayed that way for several minutes before John pulled back, stroking the pad of this thumb over her cheekbone. “What made you change your mind?”

“About staying?” She asked, and John nodded. “I watched the fight steal my father. Ruin my friends. I’ll be damned a long, long time before I let it kill everyone I have left.”

John felt a burst of warmth in his chest, chasing out the cold. “I love you.”

Mary smiled, catching her lip in her bottom teeth. “I love you, too, John.”

He kissed her, sitting on the bottom step, with the vast unknown of the Leagues hanging shadowy and dense above their heads.

 

-X-

 

 _Prick. Tug_.

“Ow.” Sam wriggled slightly on the toilet seat. _Prick. Tug_. “Ow, ow, Dean!”

“Oh, quit whining, you big baby.” Dean threaded the needle and surgical suture through the hole in Sam’s shoulder. _Prick. Tug_. “You had it worse after Lancaster.”

“That doesn’t—ow!—make me feel any better.”

“Simmer down, I’m almost done.” _Prick. Tug._ “You shoulda let me kill Gordon.”

“If he hadn’t dropped the gun, _I_ would’ve shot him.” Sam squirmed again, and Dean smacked him on the back of the head, a clear reprimand. “But John said we have to keep our heads down.”

“Yeah, so, let the dude wale on me. Awesome.” _Stab. Tug_.

Sam winced. “Ow. Sorry, I was kinda busy. I didn’t even see what was going on until everybody started screaming.”

“Forget about it.” _Prick. Tug_. Dean grabbed the scissors off the bathroom counter and snipped the thread, then uncorked a bottle of Bobby’s whiskey with his teeth and poured a liberal amount on the wound. Sam sucked in a breath through gritted teeth and held steady until the burn faded.

“Guh.” He thumbed the stitches. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Dean took a swig of the whiskey, then set the bottle back on the counter and perched on the edge of the bathtub, his knees knocking Sam’s, rubbing his face with both hands. “So? What’s goin’ on in your walnut?”

The napkin in his pocket felt like a feasible weight, and Sam massaged the tender skin around his gashed shoulder. “Nothing. I mean, a lot, I guess, but…nothing that’s gonna help.”

“You wanna—I dunno, share and care?” Dean asked with a long-suffering blink.

Sam chuckled shortly. “Yeah. Right. That’s not really our style.”

“Eh, well,” Dean shrugged, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. “First time for everything.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m good.” Sam smiled awkwardly, carded a hand back through his hair, then stood. “I’m gonna grab a beer, d’you—?”

“I’m covered.” Dean held up the whiskey bottle and gave it a shake. “Enjoy your poor man’s booze.”

“Shove it up your ass.” Sam rolled his eyes and let himself out.

Still rubbing the aching skin around his shoulder, Sam thundered down the stairs and swung around the corner into Bobby’s study; Bobby was asleep on the couch, trucker’s cap pulled low over his eyes, and Sam made an effort to move more quietly after that, popping open the fridge and grabbing a beer. He was still half-ducked inside when he heard John and Mary’s voices floating through the open back door.

Sam straightened, one hand balanced on top of the fridge; knowing he should shut it and go upstairs, but drawn by curiosity, all the same, edging toward the door and peering outside.

They were sitting on the two lowest steps, talking in low voices, John half-turned to look over his shoulder. Sam ducked quickly into the shadows of the foyer, putting his back to the wall and craning his head at just the right angle to hear Mary’s tempered voice: “— _now it’s personal. For all of us, and especially for Sam and Dean. After everything that’s happened, you’re right: those demons will never stop_.”

Sam rubbed his thumb over the neck of the bottle, tucking his chin to his chest, feeling the weight of that napkin in his back pocket again.

 _Some of us want to live in peace! Lilith ruined everything_!

He listened, the murmur of their voices, the heaviness hanging between every word, until John said: “ _Scares the hell outta me, what we’re up against, Mare. I never let myself think about it before today, but, yeah. We’re in over ours heads with this one_.”

Sam stared down at the beer, suddenly and brutally aware that it couldn’t cure the dryness in his mouth, couldn’t sate his ravenous fear. Fear that crawled up the back of his throat, fear that Dean and John and Mary couldn’t be allowed to see.

He thought he was being quiet, moving back toward the stairs, but Bobby’s muffled snort of, “ _Sam_?” stopped him with his foot on the bottom step. He turned, shoving his hair out of his face, trying to arrange his expression into a smile.

“Hey, Bobby. Sorry if I woke you up.”

“No, I was just closin’ my eyes a spell.” Bobby hauled himself up, bumping his hat back and studying Sam for a moment. “You look like a mess, son. Somethin’ on your mind?”

Sam dropped the smile. “We won the fight.”

Bobby blinked at him owlishly. “Well, lemee get my party trappin’s and we’ll have ourselves a celebration.”

“Bobby, listen to me.” Sam stepped back down to his level, into the study. “I don’t know if—what we just started, I don’t know if we can finish it.”

“Kid, you didn’t ‘ _just start’_ nothin’. This whole thing has been snowballin’ since Dean found ya. Just took ya a while to get there.”

That didn’t help the incendiary panic in Sam’s chest. “What if it’s too much, Bobby? What if we can’t win?”

“Well, that kinda attitude ain’t gonna get you jack squat.” Bobby chided.

“You know it’s possible, though, right? You know we could lose.”

“Sam, the way I see it, you can either waste what time you got on _maybes_ and _might-happens_ , or you can sack up and train with Dean, so you’ll _actually_ be ready to fight whatever the demons throw your way.”

Sam ran the flat of his unburned hand down the doorpost, then knocked on the wood. “Thanks, Bobby.”

The upstairs was dim, the sunset pooling low against the end of the hallway. Sam stopped outside the guest room, one hand on the doorknob, then pushed it open and draped his head inside for a look.

Dean was sprawled on his back on his bed, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a myriad of ugly bruises around his ribs. With one arm draped across his eyes and the other holding the whiskey bottle, he was already snoring softly.

Sam watched him, for a minute, reading a story in those bruises; reading the wounds to come, for both of them, when they faced Lilith on her battlegrounds. They knew the Prelims, the ins and outs, after a year of working the circuit together; but Lilith had decades in the Leagues, and what little knowledge Sam had garnered about the upscale fights had come from prize-fighters whose word he couldn’t trust.

Couldn’t trust the words of any demon, really.

But Sam was a firm believer that every lie started with just a hint of truth, that someone could only stay crafty for so long before they slipped up. And that, to play a game, sometimes you had to play both sides.

So he told himself it was for more than simple curiosity that he slipped into John and Mary’s room, grabbed John’s cell phone off the bedside table, and dialed Ruby’s number.

She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”

“It’s Sam.” He kept his tone flat, unaffected. “Your note said to call you if I wanted real answers.” There was a break of silence. “I’m listening.”

“Okay. But not over the phone.” Ruby’s tone sounded shifty, distracted. “Lilith taps the lines. Is there someplace we can meet?”

Sam debated. “Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Give me a day to get there.”

“Fine.”

The line went dead.

 _Not curiosity. A plan_. Sam pressed the phone to his mouth. He didn’t want her to know where his family was; let her think they lived at least a day away. He was interested, cunning, but not stupid. He knew to cover his tracks.

And maybe he could use Ruby as the key to get to the heart of what Lilith was up to.

 

 

           

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Cost to be Paid

 

            Sam’s first meeting with Ruby was in a gutted warehouse on Main Street. Sam would always remember the bite of the air, crisp like apple cider and autumn on the approach, and the way she looked with her dark hair whipped into her eyes.

            Would always remember the way she looked at him, fearless and fierce, and said, “I can help you beat Lilith. I mean it. But that means you _have_ to let me help you.”

            Ruby had been a Handler before, she told him; small-time, small-class. Not like Lilith, Azazel, or even Meg Masters. Worse than Crowley, but eager to please. And because Ruby had refused to put on a good show, Lilith had stripped her of her license and thrown her out of the Leagues.

            “That’s why you’re so hell-bent on me turning into some kind of psycho killer.” Sam said narrowly, watching her with his hair flopping into his eyes.

            “I know what compassion does to us, Sam. All of us. Okay, sure, maybe Dean can afford it, but let’s get real. He’s not even a _Handler_. He’s just playing like one.”

            “Watch your mouth about Dean.” Sam said, and she fell silent. “Here’s how this is gonna work. I’ll meet you here, two or three times a week, and you tell me anything I want to know. _If_ I decide to trust you, we’ll go from there.”

            And Ruby proved herself to be a wellspring of information, the unwritten manual on demonic lore that Sam and Dean had joke-whispered about for months when they were trying to find out what Sam was, and what Lilith was after. She told him that they were old; millennia old. That their kind had walked the footsteps of Roman soldiers and desert patriarchs.

            “Where do you think all the stories about mutants came from, Sam?” Ruby asked, tugging a thread loose from the hem of her peacoat and winding it between her fingers. “All the freaks you hear about, people who can bend spoons, that’s all _us_.”

            “So, what _made_ you?”

            “Random crappy luck, I guess.”

Sam had to laugh at that.  “John always says, if it wasn’t for bad luck we wouldn’t even have any luck at all.

The second time Ruby came to Sioux Falls, it was with a message: “You can’t bring Dean with you to Salt Lake City.”

It was a warmer day than the last they’d met, and Sam was dressed down in a t-shirt; he could feel the goosebumps rearing across his back and down his arms at her words. “Why? What’s going on?”

“ _Lilith’s_ going on. I’m hearing an awful lot about Dean gate-crashing some fight about a year ago? Ringing any bells?” When Sam’s expression pulled tight, Ruby rocked her head back. “Yeah, well, she’s calling all the bets onto the table, Sam.”

Sam braced himself, _All right, we knew this was coming_ , but it didn’t make him feel better. “What’s she planning?”

“I’m still trying to figure it out, but from the sound of things she’s already looking for your weak spots. And like it or not, Dean’s your biggest open flank.”

“Just shut up,” Sam muttered.

“Hey, I’m trying to help you save these people. But that means you need to keep Dean away from the Leagues, okay? Lilith’s got the whole system under her thumb and if Dean takes one step into a big city arena, then he’s _screwed_ , Sam. Not even _I_ can help him.”

“Fine.” Sam dragged a hand back through his hair. “Fine, I’ll—I’ll talk to Dean, we’ll work something out.”

But the thought haunted him on the walk back to Bobby’s, slipping through the place where the fence curled away from the ground, the shallow dip he’d scraped out with his bare hands in the dry, crusty soil. The thought of leaving Dean behind instigated a sense of fear so profound it was troubling in itself; Sam didn’t want to, _couldn’t_ do it alone. And no matter the number of people with him or how much they held say, without Dean it really was _alone_. It was _exposed_ , it was _unprotected_.

And it was _selfish,_ because Death Camps were like the Reactor, but for humans; and Sam knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he’d rather die himself a hundred times, subject himself endlessly to Lilith’s gauntlet of torture, Lusiver’s needles, Azazel’s fear tactics, before he’d let Dean fall under that kind of brutality.

            His peace of mind, or Dean’s safety. No contest.

            Sam didn’t notice John folded under the belly of the Impala until he passed him and tripped over the edge of the creeper.

            “Watch where you’re walkin’, Sam.” John slid himself out, his face craggy with tiredness and concentration.

            “Sorry. Sir.” Sam rubbed his bruised shin; there was something oddly funny in the fact that, after every other injury, blight, turmoil, both internal and external, that he’d endured, things like stubbing his toe and banging his shin still seemed to hurt worse. Sam couldn’t equate it. “Something wrong with the car?”

            “Just checking her undercarriage. “We’re not usin’ her as much as we used to, don’t want her getting rusty.” John hauled himself up, wiping his hands on the legs of his jeans. “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

            “Ah, y’know, just—pre-fight jitters.”

            John blinked, slow and thoughtful and so much like his son. “Sam, the League’s a month away. Pace yourself.”

            “Right.” Sam cracked a lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and cramming the other into his pocket. “Guess I always feel like I gotta get a headstart on everything.”

            “Premature panic doesn’t make you better, it makes you stupid.”

            “I know.” Sam averted his eyes, studying the toolkit by the Impala’s wheelwell and feeling an incessant, harassing  need to tell John what Ruby had told him: about the rumors, about Lilith and about Dean. But when he loosened his jaw, what came out instead was, “How did this all start?”

            John looked at him with confusion. “How did _what_ start, Sam?”

            “All of this.” Sam rocked his head in a gesture of indication. “The fights, everything. Was it the demons?”

            John’s face fell, became a mask of something hidden and sad, like fog over fractured glass. “It was a long time ago, Sam. So some of what we know is truth, and some of it’s a bunch of bullcrap. But, yeah, we think the demons started it.”

            “Dean says the demons wanted to get back at humans. For hunting them.”

            “That’s what I gather, yeah.” John confirmed, though it hadn’t been a question. “And a monster’s hard to kill. Break its neck, you can paralyze it; but those things, Sam, they heal _damn_ —” His voice broke, slightly, and he cleared his throat. “Damn fast, they heal from almost _anything_. And you of all people should know that.”

            “Yeah, I do, I just…I guess I’m wondering what the _point_ is, you know?”

            “How do you mean?”

            Sam rubbed the back of his neck again. “Monsters kill monsters. Monsters, _create_ monsters. It’ll never stop, not even if we win.”

            “I’m aware of that.”

            “Then what’s the _point_? Even if I win, the demons are still in control. We don’t have the gun, we can’t kill Lilith. Any way we come at this, we’re screwed.”

            “Listen, Sam, you don’t _know_ that.” The sudden passion in John’s eyes made his voice almost a gruffer echo of Dean’s. “What we’re doing here, no other Handler has gone this far. No other _fighter_ has, and I don’t—” He broke off, shaking his head and perching his hands on his hips. He studied the empty ground between them.

            “John—?” Sam prompted, softly.

            “I don’t know if we can win this fight.” John’s head swung up. “I don’t know if we can make it to tomorrow, Sam. But I do know that what we’ve started, here, it’s not for nothing. Maybe it’s the—dying wish of a desperate man, but I’ll say this much: being in this fight with you and Dean has changed a lotta things. It’s changed the way I see this fight. So maybe, I dunno, maybe we can change the way the rest of them see it.”

            “The humans?”

            John nodded, his forehead a jagged mountain of creases. “It’s our only chance.”

            Sam laughed, once, breathless and empty. “No pressure or anything.”

            John slung an arm around the back of Sam’s neck and steered him toward the house; and while the touch surprised Sam, he didn’t pull away. “Like I said, Sam. Don’t overthink it. This fight isn’t just about you. The rest of us are in it, and we’ll watch your back. _All_ of us.”

            Except for Dean, Sam amended mutely, because Dean couldn’t be a part of it.

            They found Dean, Mary and Bobby sitting at the kitchen table; Mary and Bobby were bent almost head-to-head over a chessboard, Dean’s chair was scooted close to Mary’s and his arms were folded on the table, his chin resting on his wrists. His eyes flicked from side to side, black and white.

            “Whose game is it?” John asked, stepping behind Mary and resting his hands on her shoulders.

            “It _will_ be mine, as soon as I put him in check.” Mary squinted at the board.

            “Not on your life, sister.” Bobby guffawed; he had a pile of white pieces at his elbow and Mary, as far as Sam could see, had taken only one of his pawns. Sam scooped up the plastic piece, turning it over in his long figures, watching his reflection in glossy black paint; he’d been the pawn once, thrown out of the game. Now that he was back in, he was in position to take the queen; he just wasn’t sure, when it came down to it, what the price would be. A rook, a knight, a bishop? Or just one pawn?

            “Sam?” Dean picked his head up off his arms, and Sam realized he’d been mouthing the titles of the chess pieces under his breath, and now they were all watching him with a strange fascination; and Mary, after a moment, with a quiet sort of understanding.

            Sam dropped the pawn onto the table and addressed Dean: “Can I talk to you for a second?”

            “Yeah, sure.” Dean shoved his chair back and John took over; on their way through the study, Sam heard John giving Mary some advice on where to put her rook, and Bobby’s rejoinder of, “That’s cheatin’.”

            Sam led the way upstairs, then stopped on the landing, raking his hands back through his hair and leaving them there.

            “What’s up?” Sam didn’t have to see Dean to know he was standing with his back to the banister, arms crossed.

            Sam dropped his arms. “You can’t come with us to Salt Lake City.”

            The silence felt staggered and close. “Come again?”

            Sam sucked in a harsh breath. “I’ve been doing something thinking, and…I just don’t think it’ll be a good idea.”

            “And why the hell’s _that_?”

            “Uh…did you forget what we’re up against?” Sam turned to face him, unsurprised but ironically amused to find Dean exactly as he’d pictured him, slumped against the banister. “ _Lilith_ , Dean. In a _League_.”

            “Yeah? So?” Dean arched an eyebrow.

            “So, you think that might be a good enough reason for you to stay clear?” Sam asked, and Dean cocked his head back, rolling his eyes. “Dean, you told me about New York. They want to throw you in _prison_ , and that’s as good as dead. If you go with us to Salt Lake City, man, you’re screwed.”

            “ _And_ —?”

            Sam snorted with disbelief. “What’s with you?”

            “I dunno, Sam, maybe I don’t see a reason to get all sentimental about going to jail. What makes my life so damn special, that I gotta sit on my hands watching _Beaver_ reruns while you and dad are out there facing _demons_?”

            “Since when did you turn _suicidal_ , Dean?” Sam demanded.

            “Oh, c’mon, Sam! Gimmie a break!” Dean rubbed a hand over one unshaven cheek. “It’s not like I’m excited about it, or anything. But the way I see it, I’m just as likely to die in a car crash as I am to get nabbed by a demon, so why waste my time wringin’ hands over it?”

            “Dean, listen to me, this is serious.” Sam braced a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Lilith _hates_ you. She wants you dead. And they’re after _you_ , man. Not John, not Bobby, not me. _You_. And I’m not gonna let that happen.”

            Dean swiped Sam’s arm aside. “It’s not your job to save me, Sam.”

            Sam straightened, furious. “Since when? I thought this was supposed to be you and me watching each other’s backs!”

            “Then stop trying to take me out of the picture, dammit!”

            “I’m _trying_ to save your life, Dean, and I wish you’d quit making these stupid decisions! You’re not invincible!”

            Dean cocked an empty, arrogant smile. “Neither are you.”

            “ _I don’t care_!”

            “Well, I do!” Dean’s voice crested just beneath a shout and they both fell stiffly, abruptly silent, listening for any commotion downstairs; after almost a minute that swelled with nothing but the resound of their heartbeats, Dean turned back to face Sam. “Look, Sam, Lilith’s gonna try to use us against you. Me, dad, mom—”

            “Especially you.” Sam said, softly and without an inch of giving.

            “Yeah, well, life’s the pits.” Dean tilted his head with a shrug. “Fact is, you can’t keep shrugging us off. She is _never_ gonna stop. So if you really wanna do this right? We stick _together._ ”

            “And if you get arrested?”

            “Then I bust out.” Dean clapped Sam on the arm and headed for the stairs. Sam turned to face him.

            “You’re unbelievable.”

            Dean paused on the top step. “Look, Sam, I appreciate your looking out for me. I mean it. But if you really wanna do the right thing, then kick ass out there in the Leagues. I know I’ll sleep better at night.”

            Sam felt the overbearing weight descend on his shoulders as Dean swung around the corner and jogged down the stairs; he lowered himself onto the top step and cradled his face in his hands, then shoved his hair back. Dean was right, it _was_ getting long, but he couldn’t find the motivation to hack it off.

            Save Dean; change the world. It was stacking up already, more than he could handle, the stakes raised higher than his head, higher than he could even see, and they were suffocating him. He needed to win, fast, hard, and clean, to take the spotlight and crosshairs off of the people he cared about; there was no ultimatum, no second option.

            There was just Sam.

            And then, there was Ruby.

            Sam crept into the master bedroom and grabbed John’s cell phone again; keeping one fretful eye on the door, he dialed Ruby’s number by memory.

            “Sam?” She sounded like she was driving. “What happened?”

            “It’s Dean. I couldn’t talk him out of it.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, then dropped his hand, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. “I have to end this, Ruby. _Now_.”

            “Easy, Sam, slow down.” Ruby’s tone was careful. “You haven’t even had your first League fight yet, I can’t snap my fingers and whip you into shape. This is going to take a _lot_ of hard work and some sacrifice on your part. Are you sure you’re even ready?”

            “I’m not gonna let Dean go to jail, Ruby. I can’t do that.”

            “Then I’ll come back and we can talk. I just want you prepped, because things are gonna get really, _really_ bad before they get better.”

            Sam felt a tinge of icy warning on his spine. “What, are you gonna barter my soul, or something?”

            “Quit with the demon jokes, it’s getting old.” Ruby snapped. “I’m telling you, it’s not going to be easy, but we can do it. Just…” She trailed off.

            “Just _what_ , Ruby?”

            “Just don’t freak out when things get worse, all right?” Ruby hedged. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

            “I’ll be there.” Sam snapped the phone shut and dropped it back onto the nightstand, then let himself out. In the hallway, with this back to the wall, he mashed the heel of his hand into his eye. “Dammit.”

            He didn’t know how things couldget much worse.

 

-X-

 

            The week after their argument about Salt Lake City, Sam skipped out on training with Dean and John for the first time; and Dean had to bear the brunt of John’s disappointment. Perched on the fence, watching John pace in increasingly tighter and more rapid circles, Dean made a silent pledge to kick Sam’s ass, first chance he got.

            “Where is he?” John barked, suddenly, spinning back toward the fence.

            “I dunno. He’s definitely not in the house, I checked on my way out.” Dean shrugged, nonchalant; resigned, always John’s counterpart, in all things. His opposite. Trying to balance the load even when he was screaming the same questions internally, and had been for days. Sam had been vanishing for hours at a time, dropping in for meals and a few minutes of idle conversation before he’d evaporate like fog in sunlight, reappearing on his own terms.

            It was driving Dean to distraction, especially in not knowing whether Sam’s prolonged absences were somehow connected to the fight they’d had the week before. Sam was a hair trigger, moreso than ever after Nashville, and Dean had to remember that.

            “This training isn’t a joke. It’s serious, and we only have a little over two weeks to get him completely in shape for his first League fight.” John didn’t even try to disguise the tension in his voice, in the arch of his shoulders and the bend of his head. He prowled like a lion through the grassy verge, and Dean watched him, waiting, subtly, for something to explode.

            “You’re preachin’ to the choir, dad.” He raked a hand back through his hair.

            “Find him,” John ordered, and then he stalked toward the house.

            Dean rolled his eyes, “What am I, a bloodhound?”, and jumped off the fence.

            He wandered, more than anything; wandered the junkyard because he knew Sam would pop back up, just like Sam _always_ did. He’d be gone for a while, never to be found anywhere Dean searched, and he’d always show up on the doorstep again looking wind-tossed and reflective, quiet, every single time with another reason why he’d been missing in the first place.

            _I needed some space_ , or, _I lost track of time_. Always with shifting, sliding eyes; and Dean, who had taught Sam to play poker in a musty motel in Maryland, who’d spent hours engaged in a strategic game of chess with his floppy-haired shadow, who’d trained with him and knew his tells, knew his shifts, knew the movements of his body—Dean _knew_ , intrinsically, deeply, that there was something Sam wasn’t telling him.

            He kicked a bucket out of his way, moodily, shoving his hands into his pockets. “For cryin’ out loud, Sam, where the hell are you?”

            He was winding his way back toward the house through stretches of empty grass and the burned-out husks of the cars when a clatter of footfalls on gravel reached his ears. Dean stopped, half-turned, head up and listening; the bloodhound catching a scent. He heard it again, the uneven shuffle of staggering steps, and he followed it, toward the gated front of Bobby’s place.

            He recognized Sam by the curve of his back as he leaned against the chained-link fence, one hand woven through the slats, his head tucked down. He was retching violently, and judging by the tremors racking his body, he was about to go down into a puddle of his own vomit.

            Dean crossed the distance between them in a few long strides, catching Sam around the middle at the exact moment his knees buckled. Sam groaned and purged again, heaving up mostly foam and icy bile, his forehead grinding against the fence. His weight dragged incessantly against Dean’s hold.

            “All right, all right, easy, here we go.” Dean lowered them both to the ground, maneuvering Sam out of the mess in the grass. “Dammit, Sammy, what were you doin’?”

            “Throwing up.” Sam replied thickly; he spat, clearing his mouth, and the look he shot Dean over one shoulder was nine kinds of pitiful and streaming with running eyes and a running nose.

            “I noticed.” Dean tightened his hold as Sam doubled over again, and vomited, again, and then he went the kind of limp and slumping that suggested he’d run dry on the strength it would take to purge himself again. “You good?”

            “No,” Sam groaned.

            So Dean didn’t move, didn’t take his arm back until Sam pushed himself upright and almost forced Dean’s grip away. He rolled himself, putting his back to the fence, breathing labouredly and watching Dean with red-rimmed, exhausted eyes.

            “What the hell happened?” Dean demanded.

            “Ate breakfast, went for a run. Not a good idea.” Sam doubled over briefly, dry-heaving, but when Dean moved to grab his shoulder Sam brushed his hand aside and sat up on his own. “Quit babying me, Dean. It’s just nausea, I’ll be fine.”

            That stung in ways Dean couldn’t understand. “All right, hotshot, how’s this for _not babying you?_ ” Dean scooted closer, resting his wrist on his knee. “Where the hell _were_ you this morning?”

            Sam blinked at him. “Running, Dean, I just said that.”

            “Yeah? Since when does Mister Punctuality himself miss _training_?”

            Sam stared at him, his expression of concern and confusion slowly turning to one of dawning dismay. “We were supposed to train with dad today?”

            “Oh, so _now_ he remembers.”

            “Hey, look, Dean, I’m sorry.” Sam said, quickly. “I got out there and sorta lost track of time. It won’t happen again.”

            “You’re damn right, it won’t.” Dean pitched his voice low. “Sam, what the hell were you thinking? Gordon could be out there somewhere. Lilith could have eyes all over the place. You can’t just go running solo, man. If you gotta work off some steam, then wake me up and we can tackle it together.”

            Sam mumbled something toward his knees, and Dean cocked his head.

            “What was that?”

            “I said,” Sam enunciated slowly. “Maybe I need some time by myself, Dean. Just because you pulled me out of that Snatcher nest doesn’t mean you own me. How about letting me live my own life, for once? Instead of eagle-eying me because _you_ think I can’t take Gordon on alone.” His eyes were narrowed with unexpected spite. “Well, newsflash! I’m not the one who got his ass _kicked_ by the man back in New Orleans!”

            Dean stared at him, struck by the outburst, with a slow-burning fire of rage kindling in his gut. “Screw you, Sam.”

            “Screw _me_?” Sam’s voice pitched high with incredulity as Dean shoved onto his feet. He snagged Dean’s sleeve, holding him in place. “No, you know what? Screw _you_ , Dean! If you didn’t watch me like a hawk every second of every day, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I needed time on my own so badly!”

            Dean’s face twisted with sarcastic pity. “Oh, _boo-hoo_! Having somebody who cares enough to keep tabs on you isn’t the end of freakin’ _world_!”

            Sam’s face twitched into an ugly sneer. “Oh, I get it. This is about your daddy issues, right?” And then, almost shouting, “ _Don’t pin that crap on me_! If you’ve got a problem with John, _take it up with him_! But stop _using_ me as a replacement because dad didn’t _love_ you enough when you were a kid!”

            Dean had his fist cocked back in a heartbeat, ready to pound Sam down against the fence, but something stopped him, staring at Sam’s shadowed eyes, his heaving chest, a crust of yellowish bile sliding from the corner of mouth. It struck him, then, that there was something deeper going on here; that more than angry, Sam looked nervous. Dean crouched, and Sam flinched back like he thought Dean was going to make good on that thought, and hit him.

            Dean mustered up a smirk, cool and unaffected, and straightened; and this time Sam let him turn away. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just another screwed-up guy with daddy-issues.”

            He crossed paths with John on the front porch; John took one sniff, one look at Dean’s face, and concern deepened the crags on his countenance. “What happened?”

            “Sam’s back.” Dean punched the screen door open, then stopped; John was halfway down the steps, and Dean knew he could ask. He could ask why he’d never been good enough, why he hadn’t meant enough to be looked for when he was lost. Sam was right; he _could_ ask. “Hey, dad.”

            “Yeah, Deano?” John glanced over his shoulder.

            Instead of the pertinent question, Dean found himself saying, “I don’t think we should do any training today. Sam’s kinda sick.”

            John nodded, masking disappointment, and turned away. And Dean went to hole himself up in the attic and play his guitar.

            He’d been playing endless riffs for forty-five minutes when the hatch opened and a shaggy mop of chestnut hair poked into the attic; a face quickly followed it, crestfallen and contrite, and Sam set a plate of Bobby’s home-cooked meatloaf and mashed potatoes on the floor.

            Dean stopped playing, and they regarded one another in silence.

            “Hey,” Sam said, quietly.

            “Hey, yourself.”

            Unspoken hurts hung between them, and then Sam crossed his arms on the floor, his feet still balanced on the ladder. He almost looked comical, half-in the attic.

            “Dean, look, what I said back there—I shouldn’t have done that. You were right, man, it’s bad out there. It _is_ dangerous, and I know I still need the backup.”

            “You don’t need to apologize, Sammy. I ride your ass and I keep an eye on you, but I’m just tryin’ to keep you safe.” Dean chuckled, once, a ragged sound. “Don’t wanna lose my kid brother.”

            Sam’s eyes softened. “Right.” He pushed the plate toward Dean, then hauled himself into the attic and banged the hatch shut, scooting over to join him. “Eat up, Bobby says you need your vegetables.”

            “Friggin’ grandmother.” Dean complained, hooking the plate toward himself with one foot and setting his guitar aside.

            Sam smiled that sloppy hangdog smile. “If you’re gonna watch out for me, the least I can do is return the favor.”

“By making sure I get my vitamins. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” Dean slanted a halfhearted smile, then cleared his throat. “You still pissed at me?”

“About the Leagues?” Sam linked his arms loosely around his knees. “I still wish you’d stay out of it. But I know you, Dean, you’re too stubborn to stand down. So just…” He shook his hair back. “Look, us fighting’s not gonna solve anything. I’ll watch your back, you watch mine. That’s just how it’s gotta be, and whatever else happens, happens. It’s just kinda what I have to do, y’know?”

Dean stared at him, remembering a foggy road in autumn, Sam looking him in the eye and telling him _I’m your property, Dean_.

Property. He hadn’t seen Sam that way in months, if ever. But still, there was a part of Sam that seemed to view this whole ordeal as paying his dues to someone who owned him; and Dean had never seen it more profoundly than after Lilith had swiped Sam from the house back in Lawrence. Even if he had snapped back to reality, there was something different. A shifting in the way he related to Dean, something that made him a little more distant, a little more independent; and the closer they get to the Leagues, the more obvious it became, a thorn under Dean’s skin.

Sam stretched, kicking Dean lightly, rousing him from his thoughts. “Right, yeah, I almost forgot…” Sam plunged a hand into the front of his shirt and Dean, mouth half-stuffed with meatloaf, watched him root around and pull out something that was bright and thin with two halves that clinked together. “I pulled these off of Gordon, but I guess I kinda forgot I had them. Almost sent ’em through the washer a couple times.”

            Dean blinked. “You were wearing my tags? You _got ’em back and you forgot?_ ”

            “Yeah, sorry, I’ve been kinda busy.” Sam pulled the chain off and passed it over. “I was trying to keep it safe and I guess I got used to it.”

            Dean threaded the necklace through his fingers, then flipped it around and dropped it over his head, feeling the metal, warm from the heat of Sam’s body, settling comfortably against the nape of his neck. “Thanks, Sammy.”

            “Don’t mention it.” Sam said.

            And it was a peace offering, the return of something that felt like it belonged. Dean rubbed this thumb over the engravings of _Non Timebo Mala_ and _Semper Fi,_ thinking that they meant more, now, than ever.

            And wondering, through a hooded glance at Sam’s distracted expression, what Sam had been doing for two weeks that was so damn important, he could forget about the dogtags around his own neck.

 

-X-

 

            “Something’s wrong with me.”

            Sam’s voice echoed through the gutted warehouse on the corner of Sioux Falls’ Main Street, and Ruby straightened from her crouch over an oily puddle on the floor, turning to face him with her peacoat rustling around her knees.

            “What do you mean?”

            Sam’s lungs seemed to constrict when he breathed. “I’m angry, all the time. I’m angry at you, I’m angry at my family—hell, I almost took Dean’s head off today because he was _worried_ about me.”

            Ruby’s coffee-brown eyes narrowed. “Did he follow you?”

            “What? _No_.” Sam protested.

            “You’re sure?” Ruby crossed to the door and slipped it open a crack, peering out into the main arterial street of Sioux Falls. She jumped, startled, when Sam slammed the door shut, almost catching her fingers.

            “Quit worrying about Dean, and tell me what’s happening to me.”

            Ruby folded her arms and cocked one hip. “I don’t _know_ , Sam, all right? Maybe you’ve always been this angry and now you’re seeing through the cracks. _Who knows_? Does it really even matter?”

            “You’re damn right, it matters!”

            “Well, suck it up. We’ve got work to do.”

            Sam’s body moved almost before his mind caught up; he backed Ruby to the wall and rammed her against it, bracing his arm in an iron bar across her throat. So close, their noses brushed; so close his hair cast elongated shadows down the rich curve of her cheekbones.

            “We’re not doing _anything_ until you tell me what’s going on.” His voice, low and dangerous; a threat, and an absolute.

            “It’s just you, Sam.” Ruby insisted, a tinge of desperation in her throat. She was scared of him, scared on a fundamental level, and there was something frighteningly ecstatic about having that kind of power over someone. “You’re lashing out. And it’s not like anyone could blame you; I mean, what do you think your family would say if they knew what we were doing?”

            Sam’s personal taste of nervousness saturated the back of this tongue; he loosened his arm and stepped back, letting Ruby peel herself from the wall, rubbing her trachea and shooting him a dirty look.

            “ _We_ aren’t doing anything, understand?” Sam snapped. “The only reason I’m not kicking your ass all over this warehouse is because you’re still useful.”

            “You think I don’t know that? I’m _trying_ to prove how serious I am.” Ruby shrugged and pressed her lips together, in that subtle way that made Sam’s subconscious mind wonder exactly what else those lips were capable of. “You’re not exactly and easy man to please, Sam.”

            Sam’s eyes dragged taut at the corners, his mouth slanting down. “You said you had information on what was coming for us in the Leagues.”

            Ruby nodded, slowly, then tossed her head, swinging a hank of dark hair over her shoulder. “The rulebook says that every League fighter starts out in Salt Lake City. It’s a big city, one of the first places they ever held a fight, period. Right now it belongs to Dana Sullivan, so you’ll be fighting her monster in there.”

            “Dana Sullivan.” Sam echoed. “How do I know that name?”

            “Probably because she’s the one who gave you up to Dean when he went snooping in Nashville.” Ruby offered, and Sam pinned a scalding glare on her. She held up both hands. “Hey, _you_ asked.”

            “If you’re not in this with Lilith, how the hell do you _know_ so much?”

            “Like I’ve told you a _hundred_ times, Sam, I keep my eyes open. Demons like to talk a big talk, but they’re a bunch of gossiping, backstabbing whores when it comes right down to it. If you just listen, you can learn a lot.” Ruby turned and sauntered away, motioning for Sam to follow, and he fell into step with her.

            The warehouse, where they’d been meeting every few days for two weeks, was enormous, a burned-out shell with rips in the rafters and broken glass littering the floor. Their boots crunched over iridescent shards and skated through shallow puddles as they went, walking a circuit because they weren’t comfortable with each other, and staying in constant motion was sometimes the only thing that kept them from warfare.

 And Sam couldn’t entirely suppress his guilt; that, even using Ruby for information, he was choosing her over his priorities, over his family. He’d missed training the day before on purpose, he was cutting it close again today.

But this, he kept telling himself, _this_ was how he was going to win; premature knowledge of the Leagues. No human Handlers had ever seen it, Sam had only caught glimpses, and that left them with an exposed flank, something they couldn’t afford to have; if they were going into this, then Sam was determined not to go blind.

“Hey!” Ruby snapped her fingers, suddenly, jolting him. “Earth to Sam, are you in there?”

“What?” Sam demanded crankily, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Oh, that’s great. You’re not even listening.” Ruby rolled her eyes. “How am I supposed to help you if you keep tuning me out? This is really, _really_ important, Sam—”

“All right!” Sam cut her off. “Sorry, I was just…” He trailed off and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Sorry. What’d you say?”

Ruby sighed dramatically. “Look, this is never going anywhere if you keep spacing out on me, Sam. This is a _League_ fight you’re looking at. You need to stay on your toes.”

“Yeah, right. Listen.” Sam stepped into her path, stopping their circuit. “I think we should meet up at night from now on.” When Ruby tilted her head to one side, a silent question in her stance, Sam looked past her, into the dark bowels of the warehouse, his brow scrunching with concentration. “I just—it might be safer. Y’know, after…Dean’s asleep.”

Ruby smiled, again, this time almost affectionately. “You really don’t want him to find out, do you?”

“I don’t want him to _worry_ about me.” Sam insisted, and at her incredulous stare: “Look, I don’t trust you. We both know that. But this…this can help. I know it can.” He glanced over his shoulder, toward the door. “I don’t think Dean could see it that way. Not after everything that happened.”

“Well, if you really want to let me help you, Sam, you know what we have to do.”

A spasm of _wrong_ , of instant, vehement _No_ , spread through Sam’s limbs, and he took a step back from her. “I don’t—no. Not right now, Ruby, I almost lost it last time.”

“So what? Sam, you’re packing up the family wagon and rolling out for Utah _in two weeks_. How much time do you think this takes? I’m not a magician, I can’t just work a spell and _make_ you proficient. This takes time. And time’s the only thing we don’t have.” Ruby’s glared at him, her slender body wired tight with anger. “You don’t trust me? Fine. But if you want to stop Lilith, _this is how we do it_.”

Sam watched her, fighting a losing battle against the part of him that remembered every blow, every gash, every separate pain, and wanted a better way out. Quicker. Even if it was uglier. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t, Sam. But how do you know you can trust Dean? You can’t trust _anybody_ , except for yourself.” When Sam still hesitated, torn, Ruby stepped closer to him. “Do you really want to die? Is that it?”

“Shut up.” Sam muttered.

“That’s what I thought.” Ruby reached for his face, and Sam snagged her wrist, meeting her eyes. They studied one another in the dim light that found its way tumbling from the rafters. “Trust me, or don’t trust me, that’s up to you. But I’ll never lie to you and I will never, _ever_ betray you, Sam. I promise.”

Sam threw her hand back down to her side. “The first time you try something I don’t like, we’re done. Understand me? It’s over the _second_ you prove I can’t trust you.”

 Ruby linked her arms behind her back and stretched, then stepped away from him. “It’s safe, Sam, believe me. We’ll be fine.”

“This isn’t _we_.” Sam said almost by force of habit, and then he fell silent for a moment, studying her. “You’re not even worried that I’ll kill you, huh?”

“I’m not a bad fighter, Sam.”

“Yeah?” Sam flashed a disbelieving half-smile. “What’s your power?”

“We’ve been over this. If I tell you that, I lose the advantage.”

“Sorry, I can’t play those kinds of odds. If you really want to train me, you’d better start talking.”

They’d reached an impasse; Sam’s agreement to train with her, counterbalancing Ruby’s secrets. Both sides stubborn, and silent as they watched the other.

“I can read minds, okay?” Ruby said, finally, and Sam blinked. Shook his head slightly, his hair flopping into his eyes until he tossed it back again.

“What?”

“It’s not a twenty-four-seven thing. The person has to have their guard down. Like, during a fight, or…” She trailed off, arching her eyebrows, and Sam flushed.

“So, have you read my mind?” He changed the subject quickly.

“Bits and pieces, during your last couple fights.” Ruby closed the distance between them again, tugging her fingers through the hair behind his ear, and Sam leaned into the touch, just a little. Just a little. “I could tell how much you cared about Dean. And John. It was like the only thing in your head besides the fight. You just wanted to get out, to get back to the two of them.”

“It’s family.” Sam said. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” He stepped out of her reach. “Look, Dean got pissed since I missed out on training yesterday. I should head back, or he’ll get suspicious.”

“Fine. I guess I’ll see you around tomorrow then, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sam heaved a sigh. “Tomorrow.” He turned toward the door, and Ruby whistled, one short, high note.

“Hey, Sam!”

He turned, catching a glint of brightness sailing toward him through the air, and catching it with one hand up, bringing the object to eye level in a pool of sunlight.

It was a glass vial, four inches tall and full of a murky blackish-green liquid. Sam thought, suddenly, of the taste of mustard. “No. I told you, last time I took this I ended up throwing it up in Bobby’s yard.

“Well, suck it up, Sam. You need the Masque. It’s—”

“Yeah, I know. Kind of like go-juice, or some protein shake for monsters. Like I said…I’ll pass this time.” Sam lobbed it back underhand, and Ruby caught the bottle on the tips of her fingers, her forehead pinching with frustration.

“Don’t be such a saint, Sam. This isn’t like the roughhousing you do with Dean. I’m _not_ going easy on you. This training is different and it’s going to take a lot more than a bowl of Wheaties in the morning to keep you going.” She tossed the vial to him again. “Look, just try it again. It goes down easier the more you take it, I promise.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I’ve had it twice, and both times I ended up getting sicker than a dog. And you expect me to believe you this time?”

Ruby arched her eyebrows. “You want to save Dean?”

Sam’s mouth cut back in a snarl of frustration, and he pocketed the vial.

 


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Andy Gallagher – Mind Games

 

The path to Salt Lake City was wide and windswept and mountainous, trapping a constant, throbbing headache between Sam’s ears. Rimmed with a haze of mirage and fog from dense clouds, it was easy to believe they were already inside a cage.

Sam _felt_ caged; felt trapped inside his own skin.

They’d left in the predawn hours, mostly because none of them could sleep, and what was the point of pretending? With the cooler loaded full of food to last them the trip and stashed in the trunk of the Impala, John had kissed Mary goodbye, slapped Bobby on the back, and now they were weaving through the mountains in northern Utah, capped in the distance by pearly snow as the cloud cover finally broke, and the atmosphere in the car was hot and sour like a wet blanket. Like a headcold shared between the three of them, stuffy and invasive; Sam sat stiff and silent, a chestnut-haired vulture perched on the upholstery, watching the single gritty strip of road coming and going beneath the wheels of the Impala.

No music; nothing but the all-consuming quiet. Suffocating them.

John tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel; Dean brooded, drumming a staccato beat on the windowsill. They all felt the gravity of this fight, their first time in the Leagues, blistering under their skin. None more than Sam, who’d suffered through Ruby’s constant chatter about it for a month.

“The thing about the Leagues,” She’d told him two nights before, “Is that everybody lies. _Everybody_. Even the humans. They say they want a clean fight, but they’re just as power-hungry and bloodthirsty as the demons.”

“That’s not what John told me.” Sam had protested, swiping blood from the corner of his mouth; he’d bitten his lip, hard, dodging her when she’d tried to smash his jaw with her elbow.

“Forget what _John_ told you, he’s never even been to the Leagues.” Ruby had replied dismissively. “Listen to what _I’m_ telling you, Sam. This is a huge problem. Your showmanship needs a lot of work. Flipping off a couple of Handlers isn’t going to earn you any points. You have to show them what you’re really made of.”

With that bottled drug— _Masque_ —in his pocket, even though he should’ve thrown it out weeks ago, Sam wasn’t even sure what he was made of right now: steel and cold determination, or a house of cards waiting to be blown to pieces.

Dean twisted around in the front seat, lobbing the plastic wrapper from his last sandwich twenty miles ago at Sam’s head. Sam caught it by impulse, and Dean whistled. “Nice reflexes, Sammy.”

“Yeah?” Sam shot it back and Dean put out a hand, stopping it right before it hit the side of John’s head. “Right back at you.”

“Quit horsin’ around in the car, boys.” John said, his tone vaguely distracted. Dean winked at Sam, pulled a grin that was fraught with charm and rebellion, and pitched the plastic bag into John’s lap.

John shot him a glare and Sam saw Dean do a double-take.

“So that’s the game we’re playin’?” John demanded, and then he reached over and cranked the radio on, blasting an operatic number that had Dean clapping his hands over his ears and Sam slouching all the way down in his seat with a groan.

The cassette stayed on at John’s behest for the remainder of the drive and Dean earned a hearty slap to the back of the head every time his hand—of its own accord—crept over to change the channel. Sam wasn’t sure which was worse: the soprano’s glass-shattering voice or the few times John tried to join in with it.

“Dude, seriously?” Dean snapped after another blunt cuff to the skull. “If you don’t turn this crap off, I’m gonna pull the gun out from under the seat and shoot myself.”

John chuckled, looking satisfied, but before he could formulate a retort, there was a sharp glint of something tall and opulent through the trees; Sam slung his arms over the back of the bench seat, pointing.

“You see that?”

They crested the cap of a smaller mountain, the Impala munching effortlessly through the incline, and John, reaching over to turn down the stereo, murmured, “Would you look at that.”

Sam recognized the arena at first glance: a massive, gunmetal-gray dome, soaring higher than any other building, washed in amethyst groundlights and flecks of white-gold. It raised the hairs on his arms just to see it, and he balled his hands into fists and crossed his arms on the seatback.

“Fancy,” Dean said, and the word, in itself, was offhanded; but the slight breathlessness of his tone spoke volumes, and the brightness of his eyes even more.

Sam felt a punch of panic that made him want to wrestle the wheel from John’s grasp and turn the Impala around; to renege on this idea altogether. Ruby had been showing him underhanded moves, the kind that weren’t taught in any circles except for street-fighting; and it helped. It made him feel flightier, faster, almost untouchable even against a demon that could predict his next move.

This was different; this was a League fight, the horror whispered between prison bars in the Reactor since Sam was a child. The places that any monster would be fortunate to die before seeing. And Sam, who was barely monster and almost, almost human, was walking toward it with open arms.

He shivered, despite the heat of the sunlight that poured through the open windows, as they made their descent into the city.

If Nashville was a forest of metal infrastructure, then Salt Lake City was on the cusp of historical, indecisive of its place in the passage of time. Junglegyms of fanciful steel architecture sat catty-cornered to masonry that was at least a century old; a rustic villa competed for the spotlight against a building of diamond-bright glass sparkling in the sun. New-age and timelessness clashed and collided on every block of the city, and Sam couldn’t stop turning his head. Even having spent most of his life in Nashville between fights, he found it hard to believe that a big city could be so beautiful.

The beauty was difficult to see when you were used to experiencing the gutters of any given place.

And Salt Lake City was no different; there was a subdued atmosphere of invention to the place, like an intricate mask hiding the ugliness beneath. Sam felt the prickle of uneasiness and vulnerability from the moment John parked the Impala in front of the dome, and they all climbed out. It wasn’t until Dean fell in behind him and gave him an insistent nudge that Sam finally moved, able to relax just slightly with Dean watching his back.

The mood of the arena was different; even with the parking lot sweltering full of cars, most of them in pristine condition, there wasn’t a soul in sight as far as Sam could see; where Pits heaved and throbbed with the unruliness of its attendees, the dome was silent as a coffin, the wind rustling the trees that flanked it. The saddled curve of the roof caught fistfuls of sunlight, swallowing them whole inside of a criss-crossed thatch of metal bars, interwoven; the architecture was intricate, and Sam would’ve taken the time to admire it if his blood hadn’t been screaming with adrenaline already.

“Anybody else getting a really bad feeling about this?” Dean’s voice pitched low, his eyes sweeping the streets.

“I’ve had a bad feeling about this for weeks.” John said as he crossed the parking lot, and Sam and Dean stayed in step with him. Sam found himself suddenly, bitterly nostalgic for an outdoor arena under a wooden lean-to, catching snowflakes on his tongue; it hadn’t been easy by any measure, but it hadn’t been— _this_.

A tunnel of a metal arch closed over their heads on the way to the wide, steel double-doors of the dome, melting them into a late-day dimness that absorbed the sunlight. John approached with purpose in his step, a maelstrom wrapped in a leather coat, shoulders bracing to shove the doors open.

They swung inward before he could touch them, pulled by hands on the far side, and John stepped back, almost defensively. The man in the entryway—tall, slender, and narrow in every respect—studied them clinically, and Sam avoided his eyes; looked beyond him, into a blue-carpeted, high-ceilinged hallway that fed into a room that seemed, from this angle, wide, and white-swept.

“You must be the Winchesters.” The man said, and his voice grated Sam’s nerves; oily and with a flavor of disdain.

“Hey, look, Sam. We’re famous.” Dean’s tone was pure acid, combating the man’s condescension. It earned him a glower, and Sam caught a glimpse of satiny-black veins under the usher’s white cufflinks before he stepped back.

“You’re late.”

“Long drive.” John said stiffly, leading the way indoors. The foyer’s roof peaked high over their heads, but the hallway itself was claustrophobic, and without waiting for instruction John moved toward the pale room. Favoring the greeter with a narrow-eyed glare, Dean followed John, and Sam was on his heels.

Stopping, in the entryway of the pale room, Sam saw Dean’s eyes widen. “I think we found the arena.”

It was a chaotic explosion of light and color, vivid blue-and-white highbeams dancing off the walls; music thumped from speakers that Sam couldn’t see, reminding him of Manchester, but on a grander scale. The entire setting screamed wealth and prestige, the absolute contrast of almost every pit Sam had fought in.

“Dude…dude, look at that!” Dean elbowed Sam in the ribs and pointed to a massive screen mounted on the far wall. “Look at that thing! Gotta be ten, fifteen feet across, right?”

“More like thirty.” Sam felt like stars were popping in his eyes; he’d seen Leagues from a distance, heard whisper-yelled words about them between monsters cognizant enough for conversation when he’d belonged to Lilith. But standing here, on the threshold of one, nearly knocked him breathless and set his head spinning.

It was an assault to the senses, noise and sight and _smell_ , Sam could smell solvent and copper and metal and something bittersweet, like half-rotten milk. But more than that, he could _feel_ the nearness of the demons, something he’d come attuned to in his time with Ruby; a rubbed-wrong sensation, tickling his scalp, baking his throat raw.

 And he felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to step between Dean and whatever was out there, however many dozens of demons were lurking in with the human population of Salt Lake City, Utah. They were hidden, cloaked by their own wiles and cunning, and Sam felt a hundred eyes on them, standing framed in the entryway.

Sam had never felt more exposed; his shoulders rose like hackles, and he rocked the stiffness from them.

John cleared his throat, shaking away the wonder in his own face. “We should find a seat.”

Dean didn’t respond, blinking at the lights, and Sam nudged him hard. “Dean, come on, move it!”

Dean’s expression crashed down into irritation. “All right, all right, I’m goin’.”

The grandstands, already packed with onlookers, swept down toward the upraised center of the room, where a flat panel of what looked like glass was situated between eight high-reaching, claw-topped pillars. Sam felt a slither of unease crawling in his belly at the sight, but he squashed it down with effort, turning to follow John and Dean.

 The demonic usher gripped Sam’s elbow from behind, and at the icy touch he felt an eruption of brief panic; that if he didn’t see John and Dean, if he took his eyes off of them for one second, he’d lose them to the demons. It was that fear that made him twist, helpless against the inordinate strength of the usher, yelling, “ _Dean_!”

Dean was one step into the grandstands when he spun around, his gaze slapping down on them. In a heartbeat he was beside Sam, gripping the demon’s.

“Let him go.” Dean’s voice, dangerous, a warning. Sam’s mind leaped through a pattern of possible outcomes to the situation, wondering if he should lash out or hold his ground; and in the time it took him to decide, the usher released him, taking Dean’s steely tone to heart. Blue light splashed over the demon’s silvery hair, and Sam felt the thump of a bass beat hewing into the soles of his feet.

“There’s a waiting room for the combatants, this way.” The usher gestured to a smaller door set into the ribbed wall of the corridor behind them, and Sam looked to Dean with another twinge of unease.

“ _Dean_?” Hoping that Dean could see the unspoken, through his eyes: _I could really use some backup, here._

Dean’s jaw worked, around a reassurance, around a promise.

“S’okay, Sammy.” _I’m not goin’ anywhere_.

Sam nodded, stepped toward the door, but when Dean moved to shadow him the demon slid between them, and even John, a few paces behind Dean, went rigid.

“ _Just_ the monster.” The usher insisted.

Sam felt like he was choking on his tongue; Dean hadn’t always chosen to stay with him before a fight, but the times when he had, he’d never faced any resistance for it. This League fight was danger wrapped in charm and it was already slipping under Sam’s feet, turning everything that steadied him straight on its head.

“Sam?” Dean said, and his voice was a hundred brutal edges, barely under his control. Sam watched him, waiting for a cue. “Eyes on me.” _I’ll find you out there_.

It was the best they could hope for, this deep into the gauntlet; Sam nodded, again, jerkily, and walked through the door with the usher behind him. It was a herculean effort not to turn on the demon, to keep going even with his skin on fire with the hungry eyes of his escort, and knowing a solid locked door stood between him and the people he had to protect.

Sam wasn’t sure what the room at the end of the second hallway used to be; the walls were a pale off-gray, with nicotine-yellow Formica tables lining one wall circled by plastic evergreen chairs. The contrast to the splendor of the arena itself was so drastic Sam felt like he’d stepped into a different world entirely. There was another door, on the far wall in the back, and the demon put a hand to Sam’s shoulder to stop him, striding past him toward the door.

“You’ll be retrieved when the fight begins,” and he was gone before Sam could manage more than an angry, “ _Wait_ —!”

The door slammed, a resonance underscored with finality, and Sam choked down the urge to lay his fist into the metal wall. He surveyed the room, longer than it was wide and with an inverted cross hanging from the back wall; more for show than anything, rich with irony. It seemed lonely and adrift, the only decoration in the room. The caricature of Jesus, glossed over with spots of blood and missing strips of porcelain, turned on its head.

“Cute,” Sam muttered, bumping the crucifix with his fingertips; it swung effortlessly upright, the hopeless staring eyes of the figure gazing down at him. Sam stepped back again, then tugged out one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and dropped into it, leaning his forehead on clasped hands.

He’d never prayed before; had never really given it much thought. He believed there was a God, somewhere, but an unseeing one, or one who didn’t hold much sway in a world that was devouring itself alive. But he’d heard Mary praying, in snatches, when he’d first come to them sick and infected and she’d been the one to change his bandages; when he’d come back from the Reactor, to Bobby’s house, sometimes he’d heard her praying then, too. Like a conversation to someone she couldn’t see.

“Hey,” Sam started, with a burst of awkward laughter. “So, uh, I’m probably the last person—monster—you probably don’t even give a crap about what I’m saying.” He dragged both hands back through his hair, let them rest on the nape of his neck. “I need some help.”

A hand touched his shoulder and Sam jumped violently, almost knocking the chair over as he whirled around in his seat.

“Whoa! Sorry, sorry…” A man almost a foot shorter than Sam backed away from the chair, one arm curled protectively around his body. His hair was a mess of brown curls and his eyes, though wary, were sparkling with something almost friendly. “Are you Sam? Sam Winchester?”

“Who wants to know?” Sam asked, cautious.

“I’m Andy,” He twirled a hand through his hair, then stuck out his hand. “Gallagher.”

“Hey, Andy.” Sam shook the offered hand, more confused than wary, now. “What are you doing here?”

Andy’s mouth twitched into a gummy, bright smile that crinkled his eyes at the corners. “What are we _all_ doing here?”

Comprehension broke. “Are you my—?”

“Yeah, I think I’m the guy you’re supposed to fight.” Andy snorted quietly, almost resignedly. “Lucky you.”

“Well, what—what are you?” Sam asked, searching with subtle glances for telltale fangs or claws.

“Beats me. Dana calls me a Faceless.”

“Yeah?” Sam cocked a lopsided smile. “Me, too.”

Andy’s eyes widened. “You mean I’m not the only one?”

Sam held up one hand, then dropped it to his knee and rubbed his palm over the coarse, careworn denim. “I guess not.”

“Wow.” Andy’s mouth hung open and he blinked rapidly; then he pulled out another chair and turned it around, straddling it with his arms hanging over the back. He had to be Sam’s age, or close to it, but the openness of his expression and the sloppiness of his posture made him seem younger. “Well, maybe we’re…maybe we’re the same thing.”

“Maybe.” Sam echoed. “Can you do anything? Transform, uh, grow wings…” He chuckled awkwardly.

Andy fidgeted and chewed his thumb, nervousness coiling his forearms and shoulders, and Sam felt himself tensing in response. “Don’t freak out, okay?” Andy said, restlessly. “I can sort of…control peoples’ minds.”

Sam blinked, tried to swallow and got caught halfway. “Come again?”

“I can make people do whatever I want them to. Demons, too. Oh. But I don’t use it on Dana.” He shuddered at some remembered horror, and Sam felt a tinge of sympathy even through his shock.

“I’ve heard of monsters that could _compel_ people, like a—like a siren. But _mind control—_ ”

“Guess I’m a…freak even for a freak.” Andy laughed, but there was no depth or real humor to it.

“We’re not freaks, Andy, whatever we are.” Sam said quickly. “We’re just—”

“Different?”

“Special.”

Andy nodded slowly, staring down into his lap, then glancing up at Sam almost timidly and resting his chin on his crossed arms. “I’ve heard a lot about you. They say your Handler went up against _Lilith_ to get you back when she took you.”

Sam felt a pull of heat in his throat, in his eyes. “He’s…not exactly my Handler.”

“Well, what is he, then?”

“It’s a long story.” Sam shook his head, clearing his throat. “Anyway, what else did you hear about me?”

“Well, you’re the first monster to actually beat his way into the Leagues. And that’s a really big deal, by the way. But this is the hard part.”

“How d’you know?”

“I’ve been in a couple fights. You know, _big League fights_.” Andy rubbed his arm, a gesture that was unconscious and achingly familiar to Sam. “Believe me, it gets really, _really_ old, really, _really_ fast.” He chewed on his lower lip. “Sometimes I just want it to be over, you know? If I can’t get out, then I wish they’d just finish it.”

The hopelessness in his eyes, in his voice, settled like cement in Sam’s lungs. Imagining himself, months into the future, with that same despair tempering his voice, dimming the light in his eyes; it burned _wrong_ in his fingertips, in the backs of his legs pressed against the hard lip of the chair.

Andy glanced up, quickly, blinking. “I’m not complaining, though. I mean, I’ve got food, I’ve got a roof over my head. I only have to fight every couple of months. It could be a lot worse. I could be one of Lilith’s fighters.”

Sam scrunched his face, his chin wrinkling. “Can’t imagine.”

There was the sound of a key sliding into the lock on the door, and their heads turned toward it; Andy unfolded onto his feet, scratching the back of his head. “You seem like a cool guy, Sam. Wish we didn’t have to be here.”

“Tell me about it.” Sam rose beside him, shoving his chair back toward the table. “I keep thinking there’s gotta be a way to prove that they don’t control our lives.”

Andy laughed as the door slid open. “Have you _looked around you lately_ , Sam? They _do_ control us.”

 

-X-

 

The minute the demon took Sam away, Dean felt like some part of him had split off and was hanging loose in the wind. Exposed, and defensive, Dean hunched his shoulders and reluctantly followed John into the grandstands. Any sense of awe that he’d felt, confronted with the luminescent architecture of the arena, was swallowed by brushing elbows with the usher. It left Dean nursing a clot of bile in his throat and remembering with crystal clarity exactly whose turf they were on.

Pits belonged to humans; rabble-rousing, fair-weather allies with a glutton for punishment, but right now Dean would take them over any one of the faces he saw sandwiched into bright-paneled chairs.

None of these people looked real; or, if they did, they were the byproduct of some plastic surgery gone wrong. Dean couldn’t see one expression on one human that registered anything beyond passivity, boredom or downright sleepiness. The glint of fervor in a wayward eye, the reflexive shift in a seat, these were the tells that gave away the demons.

There were more of them than Dean could count, and after a while and a brief spurt of an eyestrain headache, he stopped trying at all. A tally wouldn’t change the fact that they were surrounded. It wouldn’t lessen the tension. And right now Dean wanted to be focused, engaged in the fight, and watching his own back as well as John’s.

Not Sam’s, not right now; there was nothing they could do for him while he was hidden behind layers of metal walls and garish lights.

“This is fancier than I thought it would be.” John commented; he’d been gravely silent since they’d entered the arena but his eyes were in constant motion, canvassing the room and stroking out every detail. “Helluva lot more technology, too.”

“Good or bad?” Dean asked, and when John rubbed the back of his neck Dean’s stomach took a nosedive. “Bad?”

“It is what it is, Dean. We always knew the demons had the technology and the motive to build something like this.” John trailed off, dropping his hand to his knee.

“Raises a pretty sticky question.” Dean said, lounging in his seat. “Salt Lake City’s the oldest arena, right? Like, fifty years old or something?”

“Older than that. Why?”

“If this is what they came up with on Round One,” Dean nodded to the brightly-lit arena, the bass thumping over their heads. “How fancy d’you think the other arenas are?”

“Good question, Deano.”

Dean slouched again, leaning his head back and realizing with a tepid smirk that he no longer minded John calling him that.

Like always, things were changing.

When his neck started to cramp from his awkward tilted position, and his feet were tapping along to the beat that diced its way up into the muscles on his legs, Dean straightened against, stretched and got to his feet. “Yeah, this is takin’ too long.”

“Where are you headed?” John called after him as Dean pushed his way through the grandstands toward the stairs.

“Clear my head, I’ll be back.”

But he wasn’t sure he would be; because everywhere he went, sliding through aisles and tromping up and down wide, glossy steps, every face looked the same. Men, women, a couple of them Dean’s age. Nobody looked like they had any fight left in them. Just mannequins in expensive suits, set up to watch the show.

He was roaming, a wanderer in their midst, searching for any human face that wasn’t a cooling mask of sluggishness.

He caught a glimpse, once, of a man in a priest’s robe sitting a few rows overhead; Dean stopped with his shoulder squared to the stands, twisting his head to look up, and their eyes locked. Dean waited for the telltale sign of a demon’s curdling dark veins, but there was nothing.

The priest raised his hand in a wave, and Dean cocked two fingers in a sideways salute; no love lost between him and God, but he had to respect a man for standing for his faith in a den of demons. Especially if he wasn’t in the know, and still thought they were a biblical stain on humanity.

A few steps further along, Dean noticed that his footweary aberrations had brought him to a square of plush seating directly across from where he’d left John. The placement of the chairs was strategic: poised on a jutting balcony centered in the row with a door underneath, occupied by half a dozen demons in dark suits, dime-a-dozen lackeys; and right in their center, Dana Sullivan.

Dean felt a vitriol spray of rage coating his insides as he stared at her; same blackish-brown hair and feline eyes he remembered from the bar in Nashville, and if she hadn’t been surrounded by demonic bodyguards, Dean would’ve cashed in that chip on his shoulder to show her who was boss.

Like she’d heard his violent thoughts—and it was possible that she had, Dean mused, maybe that was her power—Dana’s eyes leveled with him. Dean cracked a smirk and motioned her down with two curls of his fingers. Dana rose, murmured something to the demon at her right hand, and pushed her way between the seats and to the steps, descending to Dean’s level.

“It’s so, _so_ good to see you, Dean.” Her voice was rich with mocking.

“Mmm-hmm, how about we take a little walk, sweetheart.” Dean grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the door under the balcony, and Dana went, swinging it open and walking in first. Dean slammed it shut with a resounding _clang_ on his way after her, and Dana turned to face him; a silver-plated hallway stretched behind her, into shadow. “Boy, you sure played your part like a pro.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dana protested, no inflection in her tone as she turned to face him.

“ _Nashville_ _,_ bitch, you sold me and Sam to Lilith.” Dean gestured sharply to himself with the edge of his hand. “ _I almost died_.”

“Oh, please,” Dana rolled her eyes. “Lilith wouldn’t let you die. She needs you.”

“Needs _me_?” Dean snorted and looked away. “Oh, sister, I think you got the wrong guy. I’m not Lilith’s bitchboy, she doesn’t need _anything_ from me. You know why? ’Cause she knows she’s not gonna _get_ anything from me.”

“You can’t change your nature, Dean.” Dana shrugged. “None of us can.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, you keep being the Dean Winchester that every single demon, law officer and piss-poor Seeder knows and loves, and you’ll find out just how valuable you are.” She moved toward the door and Dean flung out an arm, barring her way. Dana stopped, glanced up at him. “Your dad’s out there, right?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Well, either you let me go, or John’s insides become his outsides.”

A ripple of anger squeezed Dean’s gut, and he dropped his arm. “You demons don’t fight fair.”

“Comes with the territory.” Dana glided for the door, then paused. “You may be thinking that by coming here, to a big city, and challenging me on _my_ turf, you’ve got nothing to lose. But you can think again.” She tossed a look over her shoulder, casual and half-smiling. “Even with momma safe at home, there’s always John. And Sam, he could have a pretty gruesome accident outside the arena.”

“You hurt them, bitch, and I swear to God—”

“Maybe not them.” Dana talked over him, forcibly thoughtful. “What about that pretty blonde girl you met in Portal, and her spitfire mother? The Harvelles. Wouldn’t want them to have, say, a car accident like you boys did outside of Tulsa, would we?”

Dean’s anger was so potent he couldn’t manipulate his voice around it; could only glare cold hatred, his jaw working soundlessly, lips jutting so hard his chin dimpled.

“Think about it, Dean. Are you really invincible? Or just stupid?”

The door shut behind her, and Dean laid his fist into the wall; then his head, and his shoulder. His breathing filled the small, silvery hallway, and he slid down into a crouch, pressing his fists against his forehead.

Dana’s threat, twisted around petty suggestions, lingered like acrid smoke on the still air.

 

-X-

 

The demons that came for them in the holding room were broader and taller than the usher had been, circling behind Sam and Andy and herding them toward the exit; and while Sam would’ve gone, anyway—what other choice did he have?—their nearness left him feeling herded, enclosed, with the decision stripped from his hands. Just another gambit in the tussle between humans and demons.

Through the door, they stepped into a hallway that hummed with close heat; the steel walls seemed to throb on every side of them as they followed the twist and bend of the path through semi-darkness. Every few yards, there was a strata of light that poured through a grate the ceiling, and Sam could see bustling feet for a heartbeat before they moved on.

When a pressurized hiss echoed through the pipeline ahead of them, Sam stopped, head up, nerves burning. One of the demons bolstered him forward with a hand to the shoulder blades, and steps later real light poured over them as a section of the ceiling above them depressed inward, creating a ramp that led up into pure white.

“It’s really fancy,” Andy said, unnecessarily, and Sam had a second to think that Andy and Dean would’ve gotten along really well before they were stepping up into the light, the panel on the floor retracted behind them, and they mounted the steps up to the glass-floored arena.

High over their heads, the sway-backed ceiling was paneled with massive television screens, a dozen or more panels all reflecting Sam’s upturned face back to him as he revolved on the spot, trying to find Dean somewhere, anywhere in the crowd.

No sign of him, not even a glimpse of his jacket; Sam ignored the plummet of his guts, taking in his surroundings.

The eight enormous pillars that circled the ring were clanking and grinding with mechanical parts somewhere in their core. There was a static feeling to the air that made Sam feel like he was about to shed his skin; moving almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Andy, Sam turned a complete circle and spotted a man moving toward them. Dressed in a crisp white shirt with a backwards blue tie, and his shirtsleeves rucked up to his elbows, he looked as out of place as Sam felt. There wasn’t a trace of darkness to his veins.

“Hello, boys.” His voice was rich and slightly gravelly, and almost impatient. “My name is Jimmy Novak, and you’re in my arena.” He caught a glimpse of their confusion and rolled his eyes just slightly. “Yes, this is Dana Sullivan’s city, but she asked me to come here and that makes this my territory.” He laid a hand on each of their shoulders, compelling their attention. “I want a clean fight. Understood?”

Andy nodded with uniform acceptance, like he’d done this before; Sam’s mind reverted from Ruby’s brutal training methods, to Dean’s more magnanimous ones, and he felt himself settling slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Jimmy and pulled them down to his level. “You boys ever watch any of the loops of old boxing matches?”

“Uh-huh.” Andy nodded, gnawing on his fingernail, and Sam shrugged.

“Well, here’s a refresher course.” Jimmy said. “These rounds are point-based. Not like your old Pit fights, understand? One of you puts the other down on the mat, that’s worth a point. Three points, and you win. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” They chorused; Sam found himself wishing someone had clued him in sooner. Tricky arenas were one thing; a whole new system of winning left him without much to go on.

“Then make it a good fight.” Jimmy squeezed their shoulders. “Three minute rounds, one minute breaks in between. No seconds, no outside help.”

Sam felt a defeated swoop in his gut. _If this is a regular thing, Dean’s gonna hate it_. “Got it.”

“Good luck, boys.” Jimmy backed out of the range of the pillars; Sam watched him go, watched him stop just on the other side of the steel columns, and his throat rushed cold.

“Andy—”

There was a high-pitched screech of sound, and a current of lavender-white light shot from one pillar to the next, forging a connection with a rippling cord of electricity. Sam stepped back, his shoulders hitting Andy’s, centering them back-to-back as the sizzling ropes linked the men into an eight-point cage. The reflection on the glass floor under their feet flew back above them, striking off the ceiling and creating a lightning storm that blazed through the entire stadium.

“Well,” Sam huffed. “That’s new.”

“Trust me, Orlando’s worse.” Andy said bleakly.

They twisted around and sprang apart, coming to the simultaneous knowledge that their unlikely camaraderie was at an end. Sam was in his first League fight, now, and there was no room for mercy

So Sam didn’t give Andy a second to breathe.

He came at him with his fists up, guarding, acutely conscious that for the first time he didn’t really know what to expect from an opponent; where vampires and wraiths and Rugarus had specific patterns they followed, or places on the body they aimed for, Andy’s hits could come from anywhere.

He proved it with a body-shot to the side that Sam barely blocked, thrusting his elbow down to catch the brunt of the blow, and while he was readjusting himself Sam’s line of sight filled with Andy’s feral left hook. He swatted it away and bashed his forehead against Andy’s, staggering them apart.

But where Sam was fast and slippery, Andy was lithe and quick on the turnaround; an appearance of fumbling gracelessness hid a power behind his blows, and when Sam took a crunch to the ribs, just to see, really, what it would feel like, he regretted it immediately. Pain thrummed from the top of his head to the backs of his knees when he hopped out of Andy’s reach.

What struck Sam, taking a moment to breathe, was the silence; nobody was cheering for them, nobody called their names or hedged bets or screamed obscenities. The audience was deathly silent; the only intrusion of sound was the hum and spit of the electricity that roped between the pillars.

“Some game, huh?” Andy mumbled.

“Some game.” Sam straightened.

They renewed their attacks, this time quicker, hooking their legs together, trying to trip each other up. Sam sensed more than saw how much of this was a show; knew, deep in his gut, that he didn’t want to kill Andy. That maybe if he knocked him into one of the cords of living energy that spasmed around them, then it could be over before he had to really get his hands dirty.

Ruby had said the audience wanted a real fight; something raw and amoral, screaming blood and sweat and pain. But just a glimpse of the nearest faces, bored and unassuming, told Sam all that he needed to know: these people weren’t here for a show. They’d seen it all before. Monsters tearing each other apart, the brutality, all of the violence they could stand in a lifetime.

None of them cared if Sam won or lost; if Andy won or lost. They wanted it to be over, just as much as the fighters did.

And in that sense they were in the cycle deeper and more totally than any regular man who threw his money into a Pit fight just to watch it go up in smoke. These people had lost their interest in a game that never changed, hadn’t changed in a century; whether they’d been born into the money or come to it by chance, they were all here for the same reason. They were looking for something to believe in.

So Sam let go.

He let his efforts slide, let his mind take over; in a burst, like opening a second set of eyes, the déjà-vu settled in. Catching hints, static flavors of Andy’s intent before he actually struck, only this time everything felt sharper. Sam hadn’t tapped into the void of slow-motion replay since his bar-brawl with Dean, and experiencing it again he could understand why. It grated, it felt wrong; it didn’t feel _human_.

But it gave him the advantage.

Dodging, blocking, stepping effortlessly through Andy’s patterns, Sam backed him toward the edge of the ring; until they were so close the heat blazed against the backs of Sam’s eyes. He parried an uppercut from Andy and scooped around behind him, moving for a back-breaking blow, pulling at the last second when he remembered, it was _Ruby’s_ technique, not Dean’s, it was illegal. Compensating, he dropped low, sweeping Andy’s legs out from under him. Andy pitched backward and plunged toward the wire.

Sam grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him barely out of harm’s way.

He heard somebody’s chair shift.

Sam whirled Andy around and dropped straddling him, his hand still knotted in Andy’s shirt. Andy’s hands curled around Sam’s wrist, not fighting him, but anchoring his grip.

“I just want to be _over_ ,” His voice was almost lost in the crackle of lightning.

And Sam knew Ruby would kill him; knew the demons would be enraged. This wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t even close; if anything, it was merciful.

Sam punched Andy into unconsciousness, spraying blood across his face, realizing belatedly that he’d rammed the heel of his hand into Andy’s nose hard enough to drive the cartilage into his brain.

Not a knock-out; not worth a point. A game-changer. A killing blow.

They hadn’t even made it the full three minutes.

Dumbstruck, Sam was left straddling him for the ten-second countdown that was voiced only by Jimmy Novak; nobody else joined in.

The quiet was so profound, it could’ve been loneliness instead. Sam pushed himself to his feet and watched as the pillars disengaged, flickering back into dormancy; aside from his aching ribs, he hadn’t accumulated more than a handful of hurts from the fight. He limped toward the spot on the floor where the ramp had to be.

A scuffle behind him brought him to a standstill; Sam turned, slowly, disbelief making his limbs heavier than stones.

Andy didn’t look like a man who’d been dead just seconds ago, rising to his feet with eerie dexterity; there was a discharge of blackness through his veins, pooling into his eyes, making them shine onyx; and for the first time, somewhere in the audience, somebody gasped.

“You’re a _demon_?” Sam’s voice rode high with disbelief.

“Tell me I’m not a freak, Sam!” Andy stretched out his hand. “ _Tell me—I’m not—a freak_!” His voice echoed, a subtle undercurrent of power, and though Sam’s tongue tripped, he held his silence.

Andy blinked, and the blackness faded from his eyes, replaced by dusky gray-green irises, and pure, undiluted shock.

“How are you doing that?” His voice shook, no longer twofold. “No one’s ever been able to shut me out like that.” He stepped back, quivering. “What _are_ you?”

“I don’t know.” Sam said, and his voice was unsteady, too.

Andy opened his mouth, but the single bark of a gunshot plugged his words; he pressed a hand to his chest, pulling it away sticky red. His eyes moved up, searching Sam’s, asking _why_.

Andy collapsed to his knees, then to his stomach, a dark stain spreading from under his body.

“Andy!” Sam crouched beside him, gripping his shoulder and rolling him over; his eyes stared sightless—and that wasn’t right, didn’t _fit_ , demons weren’t supposed to die from a gunshot wound to the chest—and that was when the tumult started; and through a crash of bodies pouring from the grandstands, Sam’s eyes found the shooter.

Lilith blew a stream of smoke from the mouth of the Colt, and smiled. Then she raised her voice. “ _Enough_!”

Stillness returned like they’d all been frozen; and Sam recognized fear in the immobility, every eye in the room turning toward Lilith. Sam’s, the very last, and his was the gaze she held.

“Sam,” Her voice clotted like syrup around his name. “Let’s take a walk.”

Lilith descended from the stadium seating, backed by a flock of demons dressed in stripes of black and white. Sam’s mind rebelled, rocking him back on his heels, into a soupy puddle of Andy’s blood.

Whatever else Sam was, he was a monster, and that gun could kill his kind.

His eyes hunted for Dean, and it was impossible not to distinguish him from the deer-in-the-headlights stillness of the other spectators; he was shouldering his way down to ground level, ricocheting off of well-dressed bodies like a log swirling downstream. Sam stumbled to his feet and moved off the arena floor, bright lights dappling the glass and showing the sleek sheen of Andy’s blood from below. Sam had barely dropped to level ground when Dean skidded to a stop in front of him, winded and hunted.

“Fight or run?” And, when Sam’s eyes tracked Lilith, and he couldn’t wrestle his voice from the chasm of his chest, Dean’s hand fisted in the front of his shirt. “Sam!”

“We don’t have much of a choice.” John’s bleak voice heralded his approach into the bowl of the floor, in a rush of leather and sweat, and he came to stand behind them as Lilith beckoned them toward a small door set in the wall. Sam tossed a helpless look at Dean, and Dean shouldered past him, falling in behind the demons with his hackles up, stalking their footsteps into a narrow side tunnel; Sam and John trailed after him, the first plaintive murmurs of the audience following them as a demon on the far side of the door dragged it shut behind them.

The small tunnel curved sharply into a pewter-gray, boxy room, outfitted sparingly with one waist-high table and a map on the wall. In the sparseness of the cities labeled across every state, Sam came instantly aware that this was the world as the demons had fashioned it: outcroppings of civilization swept off in a sea of isolation. Cornered prey.

Lilith turned to face them, the dim fluorescent lights throwing ribbons into her hair, and her cohorts fell back to the walls, standing stiff, at attention. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked his weight back on his heels. “Gotta say, this little bombshelter is a dump compared to what you’ve got goin’ for you out there.”

“Well, you’re the first humans to see this room. Consider yourselves _lucky_.” Lilith’s eyes traveled along to Sam, full of a kind of lustful hunger that made his skin crawl. Sam ducked his head, avoiding her eyes. “Most people don’t get the kind of deal we’re about to offer you.”

“Can we cut to the chase?” John took militant control of the situation. “You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”

Lilith’s lips tipped out in a wet, simpering pout. “What, no foreplay? You sure know how to hurt a girl’s feelings, John.”

“You heard my dad, bitch.” Dean snarled. “Start talking, or we walk.”

“Watch your tone, _Dean_ ,” Lilith snapped her head sideways with a boiling glare. “Or did you forget what happened the last time you and I had a little _conversation_?”

Sam’s unease snapped under a cold rush of fury, and he took a threatening step forward. “If you touch him, I swear to God—”

Dean dug an elbow into Sam’s hip, stopping him. “Cool it.”

Lilith’s mouth twisted sideways in a sneer. “That was a good show out there, Sam.” Her eyes traced the length of his body. “Maybe a little quicker than what we were hoping for. And Dana’s not going to be happy we had to kill that fighter.”

Sam pinned a narrow stare on her. “Why _did_ you kill him?”

Lilith shrugged. “It was obvious his heart wasn’t in the fight. We need _warriors_ , Sam. Not civilians. Anyway,” She sighed, crossing her arms. “You have a hell of a lot of nerve, showing up on the circuit without consulting _me_ , first.”

“I’m not your _property_ ,” Sam spat. “I don’t need to consult you about _anything_.”

“Hm. Semantics.” Lilith turned to John. “Since you boys decided to run into this business half-cocked, I figured now was as good a time as any to lay down some rules.”

“Rules?” Dean’s voice was rough with anger. “What _rules_?”

“Rules like, _where Sam is gonna go_.” Lilith enunciated each word with precision. “In the Leagues, you don’t just spin around and point. You go where _we_ tell you. You fight the monsters _we_ choose. Or,” She tugged the Colt from the waistband of her jeans, smoothing the palm of her hand over the satiny barrel. Her eyes lifted to Sam’s, making every motion a taunt, a gesture of beckoning. “You drop out.”

Sam lifted his chin. “That’ll never happen.” Every fiber of his being ached to throw himself across the table and wrestle the Colt from her grasp; but he didn’t have any doubts that Lilith would turn her kinetic power on Dean, or John, or both of them, ripping them apart from the inside until Sam relented. And even then, she might not be forgiving enough to piece them back together this time.

He held his ground, poised, and ready.

Lilith licked her bottom lip, then turned to the map. “Here’s the plan. In a month, you drive to Orlando. After that, it’s Chicago, Seattle, and if you make it that far,” She tossed a feral smile over her shoulder. “Nashville.”

Sam’s throat was scorched dry. “You want me to fight—?”

“Jake?” Lilith concluded for him. “I’m sorry, I forgot to mention that. It’s obvious from the stunt you pulled out there that the only real competition that’ll make this game any fun is something you _haven’t_ fought before, Sam _._ And you’ve fought them all.”

The fragments fell together in a gruesome display that lodged thorn-sharp in Sam’s mind. “ _Demons_?”

“Undeveloped, so you actually stand a chance out there.” Lilith cocked her hip and shrugged, arching one eyebrow. “What do you say, Sam? Gotta keep things interesting for those wastes of space filling up the stands.”

“Hell, no! This isn’t what we signed up for!” Dean butted in.

“Dean.” Sam brushed out a hand, silencing him. “Hold on a sec.”

“You’re not seriously buying this—Sam!” Dean protested, when Sam regarded Lilith levelly. Judging the risk, her untrustworthiness, against everything that hung in the balance. The highest stakes they’d faced so far.

“Sam?” John prompted, the atmosphere thick with tension

“What’s the pay-off?” Sam asked lowly.

“Well, aside from the undying respect of the people?” Lilith’s lips quirked into a sharp smile. “It pays enough to have you rolling in the big bucks for the rest of your _life_ , Sam. _If_ you make it through the last round in Nashville.” 

Sam moved across the room, to the map on the back wall, outlining it with his gaze as his thoughts swirled around each other. Lilith turned with him to face the sketchy outline of the cities, and there was an eerie sort of companionship in that, in standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his greatest enemy, the demon who’d sourced his torture for two decades before Dean had found him in that Snatcher nest. There was a livid pressure building under the surface, leaving the air between them fraught and warm.

“Why these cities?” Sam brushed his thumb over the sigil of Orlando, carved under a five-point star. Knowing that the demons were only borrowing that title _demon_ , and all the religiosity and fear that went with it, made the symbol seem petty and ridiculous.

“Who says I need a reason?” Lilith reached up to touch the side of his head, a gesture that reminded Sam of Ruby, and he ducked her reach, backing away.

“Fine.” He said. “I’m in.”

“Dude, are you outta your mind—?” Dean exploded.

“Just shut up for a minute!” Sam cut him off, his focus trained on Lilith. “I’ll go through with it, on one condition.”

Lilith snorted and shrugged. “Name it.”

“If I beat Jake, then you cancel out the bounty on Dean’s head. You keep your people away from him, and the rest of my family.”

“Family,” Lilith echoed derisively, and Sam raised his eyebrows in a challenge, waiting. They mirrored each other, arms folded, neither willing to give quarter. Sam could hear Dean’s fast, harsh breathing, and John barely seemed to be breathing at all.

“Deal,” Lilith relented, finally, and a stitch in Sam’s gut unwound. “It’s not like he’s much of a threat to us, anyway.”

“Eat me, bitch.” Dean growled.

“Try teaching him a better comeback. _Bitch_ is getting old.” Lilith tucked the Colt back into her waistband and pulled her shirt down over it. “Then it’s settled. We’ll see you in Orlando, Sam.” Her voice was an imitation of warmth just before a frost. “You know your way out.”

She led her entourage back down the hallway, the door slamming shut behind them. Dean rounded on Sam.

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

“I just saved your neck, Dean. You should be thanking me.”

“Dean is right,” John said, stepping up beside his son. “Sam, what were you thinking? Those are _demons_ out there. Jake’s a bad son of a bitch, they all are. You’re in over your head with this one.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Sam insisted, staring after Lilith; the last sultry smell of her skin still wafted on the motionless air. “Let’s just go.”

The need to see Ruby was so overwhelming, it almost strangled him.         

 


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty: Time Has A Way

 

            “How stupid are you, Sam?”

“Yeah, nice to see you, too, Ruby.”

They met in the warehouse the night after Salt Lake City; Sam sat with his back to the wall, sipping down a vial of Masque, watching lazily as Ruby paced in front of him. He knew he _should_ feel anxious, he should probably be pacing right there with her. But at the moment, he felt so laid-back, footloose and fancy-free, that he really wanted to laugh at the fretfulness of her stride.

“You,” He said, slowly, “Need to settle down.”

“This isn’t a joke!” Ruby snapped, spinning for another circuit on the rough concrete floor. “Quit drinking and listen to me!”

“It’s just Masque, Ruby.” Sam protested. “I’m not wasted. I’m just…” He trailed off, searching for the right word. “Happy.”

She rounded on him. “Happy. _Happy_ , Sam? You’re happy when Lilith challenged you, put you up against the _prize-fighters_? How can you be happy?”

Sam mulled it over. “Well. I mean. Dean’s safe, right? That’s something.”

“That’s just something else we need to think about.” Ruby pressed her lips together. “Why the hell didn’t Lilith cash in the stakes on Dean the minute he walked in the door? She could’ve had you and John chasing your tails about it. And why’d she let you get away on the winning end of a _bargain_? That’s not her style.”

“I dunno, maybe she knows she can’t screw with me.” Sam mulled it over. “What d’you think about the line-up she gave me?”

Ruby puffed an aggravated sigh. “Well, it’s definitely not good. You said she’s starting you in Florida?” Sam nodded vaguely. “That’s Orlando, Sam. It’s _Azazel’s_ city.”

Sam swallowed, his throat rippling. “Azazel has his own city?”

“He likes to stick close to Lilith, but, yeah. It’s his city.” Ruby tipped her head back, eyes glinting as the light through the patchy roof, bared across her blackened veins. “Then there’s Chicago, where Meg is. Seattle, that’s Lusiver. And then—”

“Nashville.” The word stuck in Sam’s chest. “Lilith.”

“I mean, there are others.” Ruby shrugged one shoulder. “Demons you’re really better off not hearing about. But these are the ones we really need to worry about, especially with their fighters being undeveloped demons.” Lilith chewed briefly on her thumbnail. “I’ve seen a few of their fights; enough to know they’re not a bunch of savage animals. They’re smart, they’re fast, and they’re well-trained. Think _Jake_ , well-trained.”

Sam didn’t want to think that, because he’d been on the receiving end of Jake’s fists when he was in the Reactor and it was the fastest and hardest he’d ever fallen; one punch had put him on his back with a bloodied nose, seeing stars. He’d never crossed paths with Jake again, but he could still remember the sheer apoplectic power in that single blow.

Sam finished the vial of Masque and lobbed it as far as he could, hearing the glass shatter somewhere in the bowels of the building.

He didn’t know what to think of Masque; fundamentally, he knew it was wrong. He knew that steroids had an adverse affect on the body, and this was nothing more than a drug for monsters. The taste, besides that, was almost enough to put him off: mustard and gravel with just a tinge of rot.

“Trust me, you don’t wanna know how I made it.” Ruby had said, the first time Sam asked. “But it works.”

“Yeah, by—what did you say it did?” Sam had rocked his head back against the wall. “Right, by _disconnecting my brain from my body_? How’s that even work?”

“It’s not like it changes your hardwires, it just helps block out the pain signals going to your brain. It’s like super-charged morphine. You can fight longer and harder, and that’s before you factor in the way it beefs you up.”

Sam shut his eyes against a wave of dizziness; the first time Ruby had offered him Masque, he’d refused. And the second time. But the reminder of _this is how we stop them, this is how we save the Winchesters_ , brought him back from uncertainty. Getting hooked on a steroid was less terrifying to him than the thought of losing his family.

And seeing the Leagues, seeing how far Lilith would go inside the boundaries of her own personal, demon-made hell, made Sam that much more willing to take the steps. To get his hands dirty. If he didn’t, if he put personal values before loyalty, then he knew it would be better to lie down and die.

He startled when Ruby crouched in front of him, resting her hand on his forehead. “How do you feel, Sammy? Any nausea this time?”

Sam swallowed a liquid sludge in his throat, feeling the numbing spreading to his fingertips, the tingle of adrenaline taking over. He grabbed her hand and pulled it down from his face, blinking his eyes open, the hazy and loopy phase passing. “I’m good.”

His voice was a surprise even to him; low and gravelly and unflinching. Ruby grinned. “Good, it’s wearing off faster. Pretty soon you can up the dose.”

Sam put a hand to the wall behind him and pushed himself back to his feet, everything returning to clarity: the fight against Andy Gallagher, and the bounty on Dean’s head, rescinded as long as Sam could pull the fight; the fact that he was here, in a warehouse with a demon, someone he wanted to grind beneath his boot-heel.

“Well, you’re lucky there’s more than one way to kill a demon,” Ruby said, and Sam was jolted back to the knowledge that in moments of vulnerability, she could read his mind. He wondered if the Masque made him more vulnerable than ever. “We can bleed out. Get a hit in right, or pound on a demon enough times, and they’re a goner. Guess we have soft underbellies. Neck snapping won’t work, so don’t even try it; your best bet is to paralyze those sons of bitches, or hit ’em hard enough to start the bleed.”

            “So if there’s more than one way to kill a demon, why’s the Colt so special?” Sam demanded, scratching his arm. The Masque always started an itch under his skin.         “You’re asking the wrong person, Sam. I mean, I guess…maybe it’s because that thing can kill us in one hit. Doesn’t matter where you shoot, we’re just like any other monster when it comes to that gun.”

            Sam mulled that over. “Then why the hell did Lilith trade me for it, if it’s not the only way to kill her?”

            Ruby shrugged, her expression brimming with nervousness, her movements antsy. “Does it really matter? Now you know what’s real, so can we concentrate on moves that might actually take a demon down?”

            Demons, Sam was forced to learn, had more durability and a faster healing rate than any human or monster, even when undeveloped, and bursting their insides was the only thing they couldn’t seem to recover from. The same held true for every monster, but it was a slow, sloppy way to die, dragging the fights out for far too long. The trick was to disable his opponent.

 And that was where the thorny, underhanded moves came in.

            Paralyzing a demon could win Sam a round; beating them into a bloody pulp would take more strength and time than Sam had, even with Masque, and Ruby had warned him that increasing the dosage too fast would warp his mind. The only advantages Sam could work with now were Ruby’s inside intel, and the fact that Lilith didn’t know how much Sam knew; which meant her showmanship, trying to prove that demons could only be killed with the Colt, would still be solidly in play.

            “Dean’s not gonna be happy when he finds out,” Sam mentioned as he shrugged off his hoodie. “He’ll wanna know why Lilith was so interested in that gun, if it’s not the _only_ thing that can kill her.”

            “So, that’s why we _don’t tell Dean_.” Ruby’s tone implied Sam was a little slow on the uptake. “Think about it, Sam. If he runs off half-cocked looking for answers, he’ll ruin everything. Besides, where are you gonna tell him you heard it? It’s not in a _book_. He’ll have to know it came from _somewhere_.”

            The logic settled in, and rankled. “Dean’s my—”

“Your brother, your family, _I get it_ , Sam. Believe me, I do. But Dean’s not half of your brain. There are some things he’s better off not knowing.”

“Like the Masque.” Sam said narrowly. “And us.” When Ruby shrugged, and looked away, Sam shook his head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“If you want to save these people—”

“Quit using that line on me.” Sam said, deadly calm and controlled, shucking off his shirt. “By the way, thanks for telling me that the fights ran a little different than the Pits. Nice to know my partner’s keeping me prepared.”

“I didn’t think it was that big a deal. You’re sharp, Sam, but you worry too much. I didn’t want you getting worked up about something stupid like a different arena format. Besides, you kicked ass anyway.”

“That’s not your call. From now on, you tell me everything you know about the Leagues, and _I’ll_ decide if it’s a big deal. Got it?”

Ruby shrugged. “Yeah, sure…okay.”

“Good.” Sam bit the word off. “Now. You were gonna show me that move, how you snap a demon’s spine.”

Ruby seemed more than happy to oblige.

 

-X-

 

 Sam’s life divided two ways.

            By day, he helped Bobby with odd jobs around the yard, watched Dean tinker with his truck, trained with John and Dean or shadowed Mary on home repairs. By night, it was all training, and all learning, because if nothing else the fight against Andy solidified for Sam how much he needed Ruby’s help.

 After the first time back from Salt Lake City, when Ruby had told him he’d dropped the ball— _knocking Andy out like that was too clean, Sam, and it_ obviously _didn’t work. You need to keep it together if you want to stand a chance in the rest of the rounds, and don’t be such a little bitch about getting hits under the belt_ — things were looking up again.

He kept up a slow but steady intake of Masque; never more than a tablespoon at a time, and aside from irreverent flashes of sleepiness and subsequent uncaring, there was never any side effect he couldn’t deal with. Sam was reluctant to admit, but it helped; blows that Ruby landed during their wrestling matches barely registered anymore. Sometimes he didn’t notice bruises until he saw them patterned like scales across his back in the mirror.

Ruby was fast, and she favored spinal attacks; Sam had to compensate over that, because he was used to sparring with Dean, and Dean was more of a brawler than a quick, cunning fighter. Dean was easy to predict, the tells aside.

When Sam trained with Dean nowadays, it was harder; he couldn’t take Masque before a training session with him, and the blows Dean and John landed on him seemed to hurt worse than Sam remembered. He wasn’t sure if they were being harder on him now that they were training for the Leagues, or if his tolerance to pain was slipping.

It helped tip the scales of his inhibitions, and he stayed faithful on the regiment of the drug.

            And Sam’s life kept splitting at the seams; hiding what Ruby taught him, from Dean, from John and Mary and Bobby. Sleeping whenever he could, but his mind was never quiet, always in chaos with the thought of a fight. And wondering, now, why Lilith had wanted the Colt; wondering how the demons had built an empire of lies that reached higher than heaven, and no one had come along and torn down the walls yet. How no one else had figured out how to make a demon bleed; and wondering, after everything, if that was how the Hunters had pushed them to the brink of extinction. Wondering how many bloody carcasses were strewn between the pages of history, telling the gruesome story of conquest against the anomalies.

            Slowly, Sam started to lose his grip on which life he led was the real one, and which was the lie. Like the severance brought on by his nightmares for the first few weeks after they’d escaped the Reactor, he was having a hard time differentiating between which routine really held the most sway.

            “ _Yo_! Earth to Sam!”

            He jumped, startled from a half-lucid daze when Dean banged the box of Cheerios onto the table in front of him; it was the week following his fight with Andy, and Sam was still sore in all the wrong places, still reeling from Lilith’s challenge. The only thing, really, that kept him grounded and sane, was training; coming to know exactly how to take on a fighter that could match him blow-for-blow in the arena. His mind left him grappling with Ruby internally, even on days off.

            “Yeah, I’m here.” Sam shifted in his chair. “What’s up?”

            “Dude, I just asked you five times if you were actually gonna eat that.” Dean nodded to the toast Sam had been shuffling aimlessly back and forth across his plate. “So? Are ya?”

            “Help yourself.” Sam pushed the plate toward him, but Dean didn’t take it. His eyes lifted to Sam’s face, calculating and curious.

            “Something eating at you, Sam?”

            “No more than usual.” Sam lounged back in the chair. “Why?”

            “The whole _spacing out_ thing, not finishing your breakfast…” Dean trailed off significantly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times; maybe hoping Sam would save him the trouble, and clear up his fears on the spot.

            But Sam didn’t feel like making it easy; mostly because Dean had been dogging his footsteps with an eagle-eyed watchfulness for weeks, and hadn’t exactly been making Sam’s life easier when it came to sneaking out with Ruby.

 So he cocked a half-smile and sank down deeper into his chair. “What? You worried there’s something wrong with me?”

            “No!” Dean protested, and Sam let one eyebrow climb its way up. “Why? Should I be worried?” The questions came back like a sparring move, blocking his punch and throwing a right hook.

            Sam pursed his lips, then shrugged and shook his head. “ _I’m_ fine, Dean.”

            “Oh, really?” Dean finally slid into his seat and poured himself a bowl of Cheerios. “S’that why you’re not sleeping anymore?”

            Sam stiffened, sitting up a little straighter despite his best efforts, and cussing to himself when he realized he’d just given Dean a tell, clear as day. “Okay, so I’m not really tired anymore. So what?”

            “Your mouth says no, the huge bags under your eyes say, ‘ _God, lemee sleep_ ’.”

            “Why don’t you mind your own business, Dean?” Sam suggested frigidly, swiping the plate up and standing. “You’ll probably live longer.”

            “You keep forgetting that _you’re_ my business, little bro.” Sam wasn’t sure if he imagined the hint of condescension in Dean’s voice. “So if you’re burning the candle at both ends, I wanna know why.”

            Sam stood by the sink, torn between irritation and a hapless weight that made him want to tell Dean everything, from start to finish: to tell him about the beach at Rexford, the bar at New Orleans, training with Ruby and every moment in between.

            “Look, I just…” He shook his head. “I’m having a hard time, all right? With the Leagues, and just—kind of, _everything_. So, I get that you wanna help me, I do. But there’s really nothing you can do, Dean. This isn’t the Pits, you can’t just jump in and save me. I _have_ to do this on my own, and you just have to trust me.”

            There was a lingering silence, and Sam curled his hands over the sink, a lance of anger curdling in his belly. He wasn’t sure, when push shoved, what he would do if Dean kept worrying at this like a dog with a bone.

            “All right.” Dean said, finally. “All right, I trust you, Sammy. You do your thing, just don’t go too hard on yourself.”

            Sam realized he didn’t really have a standard for _too hard_ ; after everything he’d gone through in the Pits, after what he’d suffered through under Lilith’s charge, it was hard to build a standard that didn’t stop at _dead_ or _dying_.

            “Thanks, I appreciate it.” Sam rinsed off his plate and set it on the counter. “I’m gonna go for a run.” He turned toward the door and Dean sprang out of his chair, suddenly, stepping into Sam’s path.

            “Whoa, wait a second, tiger!” He put a hand lightly on Sam’s chest. “We’ve got training. With dad, remember?”

            Sam flushed with irritation; John was a slower trainer than Dean, and he insisted they both be on a certain level before he’d get his hands plunged in deep, practicing Muay Thai moves. Dean and John both had a wellspring of excuses for it, but Sam knew the fundamental truth of why training was so slow: they thought that was his learning curve. They trained him at a pace so slow it was almost going backwards; while, in the meantime, he was learning in leaps and bounds with Ruby.

            Another split, another dividing of the worlds.

            “You know what, I think I’ll pass, thanks.” Sam pushed Dean’s arm back to his side. “You guys go ahead, fill me in some other time.”

            The look Dean sent him on his way out the door haunted Sam through his run; through helping Bobby hose down and winterize some of the vehicles. Autumn was in full swing again, October’s richness dappling the leaves and browning the grass, exploding the world like fire. Green grass, green trees catching flame.

            Dean’s uncertain, angry glance distracted Sam during training that night, so much so that he ended up knocked unconscious and coming around to Ruby straddling him, holding his face in her hands.

            “Sam? Can you hear me? _Sam_!”

            His eyes rolling blearily, Sam took in the familiar four walls of the warehouse. “Guh. Wha’ happened—?” His mouth felt swollen, and he realized it was filled with blood; he rolled his head sideways, spitting up.

            “What happened? You totally spaced out on me.” Ruby legged herself off of him. “Is there something I should know?”

            “Everybody keeps asking me that.” Sam muttered, sitting up and touching the knot on the back of his neck. “Nice move.”

            “Yeah, you could’ve pulled it off yourself if you weren’t so distracted.” Ruby scooted closer on her knees, brushing a stripe of his hair behind his ear, and Sam let her. He was getting acclimated to Ruby, and to the fact that she touched everything; him most of all. It was just another thing he had to put up with in order to win. “Did something happen with Dean?”

            Sam pulled back at that, mistrustful eyes regarding her. “What, are you spying on me now, or something?”

            “No. You just get this look on your face after you two argue.” She rolled her eyes sideways, her expression ironic. “Which is kind of every day lately.”

            “He gets pissed at me because I don’t wanna train with him and John anymore.”

            “Well, tough! He’s not your boss.”

            “He’s my Handler. John, too.  It’s not like I’m surprised they care about where I am all the time, it just—gets pretty pathetic after a while, I guess.”

            “Understatement.” Ruby trailed her fingertips down his arm, encountering the puckered white lines of the cuts that Lusiver had laid into him. “You know I’ve probably seen more of you than any other girl outside the Pits, and I don’t even know where this came from?”

            Sam’s throat swelled. “Bet you can guess.”

            Ruby met his eyes, dark and thoughtful crossing with hazel. “Lilith?” When Sam nodded, Ruby blew out a breath. “That’s my whole point, Sam. She does this stuff and nobody ever holds her accountable. We _have_ to be the law out there.”

            “I’m still not used to hearing a _demon_ say that,” Sam flung back, just to watch the subtle way she flinched. Ruby had weak spots, easy parts to poke that made Sam feel powerful because it reminded him that he wasn’t her toy. He wasn’t her plaything, like he’d been Lilith’s; this whole operation, this partnership of convenience, was under his control, start to finish. He called the shots. He had Ruby in his grip.

            And once they were done, he’d leave her bleeding, the way she’d taught him. Low kick to the bladder or intestines. Flatten her on her back, one hand on her throat, and jab one solid punch to her liver, or appendix. Break her ribs, shoving spires of bone into her kidneys. She’d shown him all the places, all the tender spots on a demon’s body that could start the bleed.

            And Sam had never felt more in control. Even at Bobby’s, his grip stayed true, because hiding his secrets and keeping the Winchesters spinning around him was like being a god. Everything stayed in orbit because of _him_. Not like when he’d been in the Reactor, when he was a product of everything. He wasn’t going to be a victim, with Lilith’s challenge laid on the table before him, clearer than anything.

            “What are you thinking, Sammy?” Ruby pressed in close, their foreheads brushing, and Sam could feel her breath on his lips.

            He hooked an arm around her waist and flipped her, so that he was perched above her. With her arms poised beside her head, she watched him, unresisting, even welcoming beneath him. Sam tipped his head down, his long hair creating a curtain that brushed her cheeks; his mouth almost finding hers.

            “Don’t,” His teeth tugged at her bottom lip. “Call me _Sammy_.”

            Ruby laughed, low and husky in the back of her throat, and she brought her hand up to run through his hair. Sam dropped his forehead against her collarbone, because as much as Ruby liked to be _touching_ , Sam liked to _be touched_.

            “You’re the one that got away, Sam. From Lilith, I mean.” Ruby’s voice was soft. “You’re pretty much perfect, in all the wrong ways for her, and all the right ways for everyone else.” She hooked a hand under his chin, pulling his head up. “You’re gonna be the one who saves the world, Sam. No one will ever forget you.”

            A titan glow lit under Sam’s chest at the thought. “Yeah, if I make it that long.” He slanted his gaze sideways, still perched over her so close that the lines of their bodies melded together; giving Ruby the contact she craved, so she would give Sam the training he needed. Give and receive. _Partnership_. “Dean’s gonna hate me by the time this all over. He already thinks I’m turning my back on him.”

            “We could train harder. If we didn’t have to worry about your family.” Ruby slid one hand into her pocket. “And you know what else? I think you’re ready for the next step.”

            She held up that faithful vial of Masque, and Sam stared at it, swiping his tongue across his lips. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to take more than a dose a day—”

            “You’re already building up a tolerance, Sam.” Ruby cut him off, and Sam scrambled up onto his knees, staring at her as she propped herself up on her hands.

            “What makes you say that?” The thought gave Sam a rubbed-wrong feeling under his skin, made him reluctant.

            “Look at you, Sam. You’re fighting harder than you did before. You’re totally in control, and that’s a good sign. I knew it would work the second I gave you this stuff.”

“What? When we started training?” Sam tone’s was clipped, haughty.

“Uh-uh, before that. When we were in New Orleans, I put a little in your beer.” At Sam’s wild, furious glare, Ruby rolled her eyes. “Okay, maybe it was a little unorthodox, but, look, Sam. Masque is a powerful drug. I didn’t know if you’d just start chugging it, and if you did then it could’ve seriously messed up your insides, _if_ your body couldn’t tolerate it. That dose I gave you would’ve just hurt like a really, _really_ bad stomachache. _If_ you’d been intolerant.”

            “But I wasn’t.” There was a part of him that regretted that; a part, in his core, that hated not having a real reason not to take the drug.

            _Take the drug. Save the Winchesters._

“No way, Sam. You’re perfect, it worked like a dream.” Ruby smiled broadly. “Admit it, you felt good. When you went up against Gordon.”

            Sam remembered a mustard taste on his tongue, his racing heart, the way his fear had been muffled when he’d realized Ruby was a demon. And leaping off that balcony, going after Gordon; he hadn’t hesitated. Some part of him had felt amped up, like a dozen cups of coffee flooding his bloodstream.

            Not fear, for Dean, like he’d thought; not adrenaline. _Masque_.

            “What the hell’s in that stuff?” Sam demanded.

            Ruby shrugged. “Who cares? _It works_ , Sam. And since I know about Masque, you can bet Lilith does, too. She’s not gun-shy about using this stuff, and neither are the other Handlers. The only one who never touches it is Lusiver; he thinks pain keeps his monsters sharp.”

            “Yeah, well, maybe he’s right. Maybe I _need_ the pain, Ruby.”

            “Then you can let Dean beat the crap out of you when you two are training.” Ruby held the vial out to him. “Sam, it’s _working_. Gaining a tolerance for this stuff isn’t a bad thing. It just means you’re that much stronger. It means you can survive.”

            And in a perfect world, Sam knew, he _would_ survive; he’d beat every monster, every _demon_ that Lilith threw at him, and he’d rise above the rest, the crowned victor of the Leagues. He’d have a family, a home, a future. Everything he’d never let himself hope for.

            So, he wondered, why start hoping now?

            He snatched the vial from Ruby and tossed it back, feeling the sludge-warm, liquid taste corroding his throat. He slammed his eyes against the inherent wave of dizziness as it winged through his bloodstream, his heartbeat escalating to welcome in the drug. _Drug._ Sam didn’t let himself think about it, really, because who he was when he trained with Ruby wasn’t the same person as when he sat at Bobby’s table; when he flicked raisins out of his cereal and into Dean’s; when he played chess with Mary; when he trained with John.

            That was who he really was; human, or almost like one.

            This was his game-face. Ruby was his audience. This was just another way of training, just another method employed to win.

            He repeated it like a prayer until it made sense, until he felt the calm of the Masque settling over him, and with a soft growl of pleasure, he opened his eyes.

            “It’s working.”

            “Yeah?” Ruby grinned. “You feel good?”

            Sam flexed his fingers, studying them. “Better than good.”

            He clamped a hand around her throat, fingers digging around her windpipe, and  he slid around behind her, squeezing her into a Full Nelson, his hands mashing her chin down to her chest.

            Ruby folded her hands over his, and Sam saw her intent in a twist of déjà-vu, time turning fluid: her arms shooting up straight, wriggling, dropping straight out of his hold and landing a punch to his groin.

            Sam moved faster than she did, shaking off the pause of awareness; when Ruby raised her arm, Sam hooked it down, slamming it against her side and spinning her around, pinning them chest-to-chest.

            Ruby’s eyes were a head below his, Sam’s hair falling against her face. “That was good, Sam.”

            “Tell me something,” He said, icy calm and quiet. “Why is Lilith sending _demons_ to fight me?”

            “It’s nothing good, that’s for sure.” Ruby tried to shift away and Sam snagged the back of her neck. “Maybe she was telling you the truth, about you being too good to fight monsters.”

            “Lilith can’t make that call. She doesn’t know what I am.”

            “You’re Faceless, Sam. You’re worse than a demon. What else is there to know?”

            Not even the warm flush of Masque under his skin could kill the coldness that spread through Sam’s veins.

 

-X-

 

            Sam thought Dean was stupid.

            It was the only explanation that made sense; between shirking off the training with John, wandering around like a zombie or crashing in the guest room for hours during the day, and then sneaking out at night, it was like a stranger had moved into the house. Not the broken shell of Sam post-Reactor, but a different, cunning visitor that made Dean uneasy, left him on edge.

 And Sam still tried to play off the innocent act, round eyes and tilted mouth, but he wasn’t the same; he wasn’t the same Sam that Dean had pulled from the cage. Wasn’t the Sam with his feet planted, either. This was Sam with his feet kicking mud under the current, and Dean didn’t like how dark the water was turning.

“He creeps me out, man,” Dean admitted one dewy morning, sitting on the front porch sharing a beer with Bobby; autumn was back in full swing, and Dean had to admit he hadn’t missed the chilly weather. “Makes my skin crawl being in the same room with him, anymore.”

“Why’s that?” Bobby was perched on the step above Dean, and in close proximity Dean could smell the polisher and oil on his worn-white jeans.

John and Mary and Sam were still asleep; there was something peaceful and lonely about Sioux Falls at sunrise. “I dunno, it’s like he’s two different people. He acts like he’s this freakin’ angel until we’re not lookin’, and then he starts doing his own thing.” Dean tipped back a swig of beer. “You know how many nights he’s vanished this week?” He held up indicative fingers. “ _Three_.”

“Yeah? So?” It was a classic Bobby prompt, feigned nonchalance to bring out the real concern behind any given topic of conversation.

“So, what the hell, Bobby? Where’s he running off to all the time?”

“Beats the hell outta me.” Bobby shrugged. “But it ain’t our problem.”

Dean twisted around to squint up at him. “It’s not?”

“ _No_.” Bobby’s eyes widened marginally. “Sam’s his own man, Dean. Sure, he’s young, but he’s learning the ropes on being independent. And you gotta learn to let him be, and quit bein’ so hard on him all the time.”

“Yeah, but the sneaking? Seriously?”

“There’s a reason for everything. Maybe it’s just Sam.”

Dean couldn’t do it; he couldn’t settle with Sam’s mercurial moods, his temperamental shifts. The few times when they did train, Sam pulled his punches more. He seemed distracted, calling it quits as soon as he could. Dean watched John growing more disappointed by the day, and his own irritation grew.

            So he was surprised when he stretched out on Bobby’s couch to flip through reruns on the five snowy channels that somehow pinged their way through the hideous reception this far north, and Sam joined him: bowl of popcorn in hand, two water bottles. He plunked one in Dean’s hands and sat on the floor, his back against the couch.

            “Uh,” Dean stared at the back of Sam’s head. “Thanks.”

            “Yeah, don’t mention it.” Sam unscrewed the cap of his water bottle and held it up, and Dean toasted him, taking a long swallow after just to give himself time to think.

            “You good, Sammy?”

            “I’m fine, Dean.” Sam replied, lightly. “Why?”

            “I dunno, seein’ you up before noon is kinda rare these days.”

            “Guess I just get tired.” Sam leaned his head back to look up at Dean, his hair falling back from his forehead and into one eye. He squinted it shut and grinned. “Besides, we don’t really get a chance to hang out like this all the time, right?”

            “Tell me about it.” Dean propped himself up on one elbow and went for the bowl of popcorn by Sam’s elbow. “ _Beaver_ or _Star Trek_?”

            “Dude, _totally Star Trek_. How is that even a debate?”

            “Somebody taught you how to pick your shows.”

            “ _You_ did.”

            Dean felt a small glow of pride and a loosening in his chest.

            They watched the reruns for hours, Sam shifting every few minutes to alleviate the pressure on his tailbone from the hardwood floor. Dean crunched popcorn too loud during the important parts and dropped popcorn seeds into Sam’s hair. He let himself believe that this mattered a hell of a lot more than whatever else was going on with Sam.

            Let himself believe it was _all_ that mattered.

            “How often do we get a chance to do stuff like this, huh?” Dean asked between episodes, rolling over on his back and tossing Bobby’s pillow to himself, over and over. Sam angled around to face him.

            “What stuff?”

            “Y’know, relaxing. Watching bad acting, eating popcorn, rotting our brains.”

            “Well, Dean, we didn’t exactly have this kind of stuff back in Lawrence.”

            Dean rolled over, trapping the pillow under his arm. “That’s kinda my point. We used to train all the time, or I’d drag your ass out in my truck in the middle of the night to God knows where. Just to drive around.”

            “We’re not the same people we were back then, Dean.” Sam’s eyes were dimmed with an unreachable sadness.

            “Oh, that’s crap, Sam. That was last spring, it’s not like it was decades ago.”

            “Things happen. People change.”

            Dean studied Sam’s face, open and honest but with something else there, something hidden, masked beneath the brights of his eyes. “They don’t have to.”

            “Maybe they _want_ to.”

            The good mood evaporated, and Sam took the bowl into the kitchen. When he came back through, it was on his way to the stairs.

            “Where are you going?” Dean called after him.

            “Bed. ’Night.”

            Dean thumped his head back on the armrest. “Right. Bed.”

            There were a few restless, quiet seconds, and then Sam’s voice, barely-there. “Dean?”

            He sat up, propped on his elbows. Sam was trailing his knuckles up and down the railing of the stairs, studying them, avoiding Dean’s eyes.

“What?”

            “You don’t have to worry. About Lilith, or…about me. About the fights. Just take care of yourself.”

            Dean felt a stab of warning, deep in the marrow of his bones. “What’s goin’ on with you, Sam?”

            Sam’s smile was brief and half, and forced. “See you in the morning.”

            He disappeared up the stairs and Dean slumped against the back of the couch, carding a hand back through his hair.

            The conversation, if it could be called that, haunted him for the rest of the day. Picking his way over the goulash Bobby made; turning in early; spitting a white foam of toothpaste into the sink and bracing his hands on both sides of the porcelain basin, studying his reflection in the mirror. Dean figured, if he could see the worry in his own reflection, it was bad news.

            That was all his face was: skin grafted on over brackets of concern. A feeling like he was holding something together as it tried to swirl itself apart.

            Dean couldn’t sleep that night; sprawled on his back, one arm across his chest, his eyes hooded and his breathing deep. But awake, every sense a livewire, waiting for the moment when the restless creaking of Sam’s bed stopped; when the stillness became almost unbearable, like a pillow pressing over his face.

            He heard Sam’s footsteps padding toward the door; a brief stripe of moonlight from the hall dazzled Dean’s eyelids, and then it was gone.

            Dean sat up, threw off his covers, and followed Sam out, his skin prickling cold through his t-shirt and sweatpants.

            When he poked his head out the room, Sam was already thumping down the stairs. Dean slipped quietly in his wake, avoiding the creaking center floorboard of the upstairs hallway by hugging the wall. He peered over the railing, watched Sam tugging his boots on by the front door; he stepped back quickly when Sam’s head swung up, breathing out shallowly, waiting.

            When he moved forward again, he heard the front door tap shut.

            “Dammit, Sam.” Dean hurried to the door and yanked it open. “Sam!”

            Sam froze in his tracks halfway down the front walk; he didn’t turn, at first, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was shock or anger that made him stiffen into stone in the moonlight.

            Dean shut the door at his back. “Seriously, dude what the hell?”

            Sam turned, finally, with a smile on his face that was a rictus of lies, a thousand wrapped into one. “Just going for a walk. Couldn’t sleep.”

            “Great. I’ll come with you.”

            “Dean, we’ve been over this.” There was something patronizing in Sam’s tone that made Dean’s stomach flush with anger. “I appreciate your concern, but—”

            “Yeah, yeah, you’re a tough guy, you don’t need a babysitter.”

            “Exactly.”

            Dean studied Sam, his profile highlighted with cold silver light. There was something different about him; broader, taller, the bulk of him filling the walkway. His shadow was a mile long behind him, as imposing as his stance: arms spread slightly, head cocked forward. Every muscle tight with a challenge.

            For the first time that Dean could remember, Sam didn’t look all human.

            “What’s the matter, Dean?” Sam taunted. “Cat got your tongue?”

            “Sam, what did you _do_?”

            “Not _did_. _Doing_.” Sam enunciated slowly. “ _I’m_ doing what you were too scared to do, Dean. I’m finding a way to survive.”

            “What are you talking about?”

            Sam’s expression was almost a smile, his chin wrinkling, and he heaved a slow sigh. The combination was richly demeaning, the expression of an adult facing a child with a tantrum, nothing but superior amusement. “I’m training, Dean. On my own.”

            Dean found that he wasn’t surprised; wasn’t anything but darkly disappointed. He scratched his cheek and studied the ground. “I figured.”

            There was a brief pause. “You did?”

            “You’re bulking up, Sam. Some of those moves you pulled in Salt Lake City, hell, I _know_ I didn’t teach you that. So it’s gotta be coming from somewhere, right?” Dean held his arms out in a wide shrug, then dropped them to his sides. “What I wanna know is, _where are they comin’ from?_ ”

            “Well, too bad.” Sam lifted his chin, his voice rough and low.

            Dean’s eyes narrowed, blacking out the green of his irises. “Are you loaded?”

            Sam barked an incredulous laugh. “ _What_?”

            “You heard me.” Dean stepped closer. “ _Are—you—loaded_?”

            “Oh, please.” Sam scoffed. “You think the only way I can stand up for myself is if I’m taking something? Or if I’m—what? Drunk?”

            “No, this isn’t drunk. You drunk is like a kid with a candycane. This is worse.”

            “Right.” Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean stopped, arms folded.

            “What happened to you?” He felt a bleak rush of something he hadn’t expected: despair, sapping the fight from his body. “You’re pulling in air, man, but you’re still drowning.”

            The tendons on Sam’s neck jutted as he craned his head away from Dean, his eyes half-hooded with disdain. “Is that so?”

            “Sam, c’mon, I know you.” Dean took another step closer. “Better than anyone. So when I say something’s wrong, then _something’s wrong_. You gotta believe me.”

            “I don’t think so.” The chilly finality of Sam’s tone ended the conversation. He turned away and Dean closed the distance, snagging his arm.

            “Dammit, Sam, listen—!”

            “No, _you_ listen!” Sam shook him off, just a ripple of powerful muscle under his hoodie sleeve; and since when had Sam’s skin been stretched that tight over rock-solid ligaments beneath? Dean knew every inch of Sam, had poured hours of training into him and landed more glancing blows on Sam’s body than any monster. And he knew that somewhere in the weeks of avoidance tactic, something had changed. “Why are you so against me winning?”

            “This isn’t about you _winning_ , Sam, it’s _how_ you’re doing it.”

            Sam tossed his head back. “Right. _You_ think I’m hopped up on something.”

            Dean shrugged. “If it looks like a duck—”

            “How many times do I have to say it, Dean? I’m working on a different kind of training, that’s all there is to this!”

            “Yeah, and it’s the _wrong kind_!”

            “No. Wrong for _you_.” Sam replied frostily. Dean cocked his head back and shook it, and Sam sighed, more weary than exasperated, this time. “Look. I know you swear by what dad taught you. And I respect that. I’m sure he used to be a good fighter, back in the day.”

            “ _Used to be_?” Dean echoed disbelievingly.

            Sam didn’t seem to hear him. “But that stopped working for me a long time ago, and we both know that. I was barely scraping by on most fights.”

            “Look, I know it was tough—”

            “No, Dean. You don’t.” Sam’s expression was gentle, but the condescension was back, flickering muddy in his hazel eyes. “You don’t know. How could you? While you were sitting safe and cozy on the sidelines. But I was _in_ there, taking the hits, every single fight.”

            That stung, with the implication that Dean had been nothing more than a pampered benchwarmer, but he refused to let it sidetrack him. “It’s gonna take time to teach you everything dad knows, Sam. But we can do this. I know we can.” He fisted a hand in the front of Sam’s jacket, giving him a shake. “Sam, work with me, here. Stick it out, man, please.”

            Sam pulled in an exaggerated breath through his nostrils as though biding his time for patience. “What I’m doing _now_ , works, Dean. You saw how I beat Andy with barely a scratch on me. And if that’s what I get out of all this? Then I’m not complaining, and I’m sure as _hell_ not going to apologize for it.”

            Dean let Sam loose, moving back. “I don’t like it.”

            Sam chuckled, once, soft and derisively. “You know, I _really_ don’t care.” He turned away and strode down the path.

            Dean’s anger burst. “Don’t walk away from me—Sam! Hey! I wanna see your face when I’m talking to you, dammit!”

            Sam turned to him, retreating with his arms spread wide. “I’m Faceless, Dean. What’s there to see?”

            Struck silent, choking on his own tongue with fury, Dean watched Sam vanish into the shadows on the edges of Bobby’s property.

            He wasn’t sure how long he was standing there, breathing labouredly, wrestling with his temper and an overwhelming feeling of despair, before he heard the front door open, feet crunching across gravel. His jacket fell against his shoulders, a heavy, familiar warmth, and as he tugged it on over his wind-chapped arms, he felt Mary’s hand tracing a five-point star on his back. “I heard shouting. What’s wrong?”

            “It’s Sam.” Dean’s voice was husky. “He, uh…”

            There weren’t any words, really, none that Dean could pull from the empty vat of feeling in his chest. He ducked his head.

            Mary’s arms wound under his from behind, her cheek against his shoulderblade, her thumbs smoothing against his collarbone. “My angel.”

Dean wrapped one arm around his chest, capturing her palm over his heartbeat. “What’m’ I supposed to do, mom?”

“I wish I had the answer for you, sweetheart.” Mary whispered, her breath warm through his jacket. “But you always knew this would take time. And time has a way of changing things.”

            “Something’s wrong with _Sam_.”

            Mary dropped her arms and pulled him around, folding him into a proper hug with his chin draped over her shoulder. “Whatever it is, we’ll help him.”

            Dean swallowed the part of him that was facing the ugly truth:

            Sam didn’t want their help anymore.

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-One: Max Miller – Lessons in Spoonbending

 

            “We need to talk.”

            Ruby had her peacoat off when Sam shoved open the door of the warehouse, and she came to meet him, smelling like cinnamon and engine oil. They rendezvoused every other day now, here in the gutted center of Sioux Falls, and Sam wondered where she went in-between meets.

            Wondered, usually, but not tonight. Not after what had happened.

            Ruby halted several feet away, reading something in his eyes, in his stance, that gave her pause. “Sam?” She traced his features with worried eyes. “What happened?”

            Sam was finding it hard to breathe, harder to focus. “It’s Dean, he—”

            “Is he okay? Did something happen?”

            Sam favored her with a glare. “Don’t pretend like you care. I know you better than that. You wouldn’t give two craps if Dean was _dying_.”

            “Okay, so maybe I’m not his biggest fan.” Ruby shrugged. “So what? I care about _you_ , so whatever’s bothering you, maybe I can help—”

            “You want to _help_ me?” Sam bit off.

            “Yeah, Sam, I do!”

            “Then you can start by being straight with me, here.” Sam circled her, slow and measured strides. It was hard to keep his composure when the adrenaline and Masque ran like coffee and blood through his veins. He wanted to explode, to lash out; or to tell Ruby to fight him, here and now. But Ruby wasn’t Dean, they didn’t speak in blows and bruises. He had to bring himself to her level to make sense of this.

            “I told you, I’m not gonna lie to you, Sam.” Ruby insisted, revolving on the spot to follow him as he circled. Sam stopped, facing her, and was surprised by the sudden sense of vulnerability that spilled through his veins.

            “ _What is happening to me_?”

            Ruby’s forehead crinkled. “What are you talking about?”

            “Remember when I told you I was angry all the time?” Sam waited for Ruby to nod, to cock her head in a way that said she wasn’t seeing his point. “It’s getting worse.” He felt a socking, painful memory of Dean’s furious countenance in the semi-darkness, striking his gut.

            “Well, define _worse_.”

            “I think it’s the Masque.” Sam admitted, seamlessly skating around her prompt; he didn’t want to define it. “I took some right before I came out here to meet you, and Dean sort of…caught me, I guess.”

            “Wait, this is _you_ hopped up?” It was Ruby’s turn to circle, studying Sam from every angle. “How are you even keeping yourself on a leash right now?”

            “What are you talking about?”

            “ _You_ , Sam, usually, you’re like this wrecking ball when you’re tripping. Right now, I can’t even tell you’ve had any.” She sounded faintly impressed.

            “Listen to me…that’s my whole _point_.” Sam insisted. “I think the Masque is screwing with my head. It’s like it opens me up. It brings up everything I’m pissed about, every single thing that makes me angry, and it makes it a hell of a lot worse. It turns me into some kind of self-righteous—”

            “Monster?” Ruby finished. “Face it, Sam, that’s what you are!”

            “I can be better than that!” Sam snarled. “I was surviving, I had everything under control. And then _you_ showed up with that stupid drug, and I’m slipping every _damn_ day! I can’t do this anymore, Ruby!”

            “Whoa, slow down.” She rested a hand on his chest. “Maybe you _are_ tripping.”

            “Ruby.” Sam insisted; he needed her to understand, he needed to _make_ her understand. “You didn’t see his _face,_ Ruby, it was like I was killing him. And that’s not _me_ , I’m not that kind of person.”

            “Maybe you _are_ that kind of person, Sam. Maybe the Masque is just bringing out all the sharp edges.”

            Sam swiped her hand off, detaching her hold on him. “Then I’m not gonna take it anymore, dammit!”

            “Well, you sure as hell can’t stop whatever Lilith’s planning if you stop drinking Masque! And I mean, you’ve gotta be _chugging_ the stuff!”

            The air around Sam felt like it dropped several degrees. “ _What_?”

            Ruby was impossibly still for a beat. “Okay, so I kind of left out a few parts. Masque doesn’t just give you an extra kick, it makes you stronger on the inside.” She motioned to her abdomen, talking with her hands. “If you take it long enough, it builds this shell around all those soft spots I told you about. Makes you stronger. So maybe I was sort of exaggerating when I said you could kill Lilith by ripping her open. Her and Lusiver and Azazel, you’d definitely have to shoot. The alternative would be…probably as effective as punching a brick wall.”

            “So, that’s why you’ve been upping my dose?” Sam asked, shallowly. “You want to turn me into some kind of unbreakable weapon that you can use against— _against who_ , Ruby? No matter how strong I get, I can’t stop Lilith without that gun.”

            “No, but you stand a _lot_ better chance of beating the fighters she throws your way if you’ve got something in your system to keep you going!”

            Sam snared her arm and yanked her close; because as much as Ruby spoke manipulation into touch, the best way to communicate his anger was through the same medium.  “And you didn’t tell me any of this— _why_?”

            “You think I don’t know how much you hate me?” Ruby snapped. “I’m a _demon_ , Sam, no matter what I do, nothing changes that. I’ll always just be a bunch of black veins and bad history to you. So maybe I was playing my cards close to my chest, maybe I was stringing you along just a little bit. But you have to believe me, I was doing it _for you_.”

            “For me.” Sam echoed lowly. “What _about_ this is _for me_ , Ruby?”

            “It’s not like I was giving you the Masque because it’s so cheap or easy to come by.” Ruby wriggled slightly in his hold. “I _want_ you to be strong, Sam. I want you to be unstoppable. I’ve been stealing from a demon’s storehouse for _weeks_ to get that stuff. The least you could do is thank me.”

            Her sanctimonious tone snapped something in Sam’s chest; mostly because it sounded like the echo of his fight with Dean.

“You know what? _Enough_.” He spat. “I’ve been lying to _everybody_ , sneaking out with you for weeks, and all you’ve shown me is a couple crappy moves and a pile of info without a shovel to dig through it. Either you give me real answers, or I walk.”

            “I can’t just tell you everything at once!” Ruby wrenched her arm, and Sam gripped it tighter, dragging her against him.

            “Think again. You drugged me in New Orleans, you’re trying to talk me into illegal fighting moves, and I just put a nail in my coffin with Dean, because when I’m taking this drug, for some reason I can’t keep my mouth shut!” His voice punched through a shout on the last few words, and Ruby pulled her shoulders forward, ducking her head like a reprimanded child. Sam wrangled his temper under control, his voice dangerously low. “But, right, you don’t owe me anything.” He released her, shoved her back a step. “Typical demon.” Frustrated, running on days of coffee, Masque and adrenaline, and disgusted but unsurprised that she was holding out on him, Sam swiped a dismissive hand through the air. “Go screw yourself, Ruby.”

            “Where are you going?” She demanded as he turned toward the door.

            “I’m gonna apologize to Dean, tell him what we’ve been doing, and see if he can help me find a real way to beat whatever the demons throw at me.”

            “Oh, right. Right! Sure! Because Dean’s ideas have always helped you _so much_ in the past!” Ruby called after him. “Broken bones, bleeding out, yeah, he’s really got your best interest at heart!”

            Sam’s stride hitched, the truth he’d kept buried under a sheepish smile slamming back to the surface; the same truth he’d used as a verbal weapon against Dean. But he kept going. “He’s done a hell of a lot more for me than you have.”

            “He wouldn’t,” Ruby added viciously. “If he knew what you _really_ were!”

            Sam froze with his hand on the doorknob, ice tumbling and clacking against his vertebrae. He turned to face her, his jaw working soundlessly, his throat heaving against the lump that had settled there. “ _What_?”

            “God, you’re slow, sometimes.” Ruby’s voice was edged with malice. “The answer was sitting in front of you the whole time. Are you really that dense, or were you just not looking at it on purpose?”

            “I don’t—what the hell are you talking about?” The words hung raw in Sam’s throat, battering their way free.

            “Why do you think Lilith was so desperate to get you back? Huh? And why do you think she’s pitting _demons_ against you?” Ruby moved toward him with graceful, slow strides. “Your parents being dead, the fact that Masque doesn’t hurt you—”

            “Stop.” Sam said. “Stay away from me.”

            “How about the way you always know what your enemy’s about to do before he even does it?” Ruby was almost toe-to-toe with him. “You’ve known. Ever since you met Andy. It’s why you’re so scared of Dean finding out what we’re doing, and that’s why you’re not going to tell him about any of this.”

            “Ruby—”

            “It’s because you’re _not_ Faceless, Sam.” The pleasure in her voice was saccharine-sweet, horrifying. “You’re one of us.”

            Sam shoved her staggering back. “ _Shut the hell up!_ ”

            “Think about it!” Ruby recovered her footing, spreading her arms wide. “How else can you explain how fast you heal? Nothing kills you no matter how hard you get hit, because no monsters know how to make you bleed out. And that Masque? It’s not for _monsters_ , it’s for _demons_. You’ve got the same blood as the rest of us, Sam.”

Sam was shaking, shaking apart the seams. “ _Oh, my God_.”

“See? So even if you stop taking the drug, that thing you hate? It’ll always be inside you. You can’t get away from it. Sam, there is no _happy ending_ for our kind. Deep down, we all know it. You’re just playing make-believe with these Winchesters.” She laid a tentative hand on his cheek. “Time to wake up, Sam.”

But Sam _was_ awake; hadn’t ever been more awake, the whole world popping in a kaleidoscope of pain and revulsion, washed in the glossy darkness of brutal understanding. All the hits he’d taken, and somehow survived; all of the movements he’d predicted, his clarity greatest with Masque streamlining his veins. His origins, his history, all of it: pointing, arrow-straight and true, toward the reality he’d hidden from, in pages of books about monsters and the ignorance of a family who’d believed in him.

Sam was awake, living a nightmare.

A vampire, he wouldn’t mind; some remote breed of Shapeshifter that never shifted. He could be anything else, and live with it; like a defect, like a third limb, he could learn to cope.

But not this; not being one of the things that had driven the world to the brink of self-destructive madness. Not sharing the blood of the twisted sociopaths who’d almost killed Dean, the stigmas who’d pushed countless people into suicide.

His race, harbingers of indirect genocide on a global scale.

 _His bloodline_.

Demons.

Sam watched every hope he’d had of future, of life, of _family_ , slip through his fingers and catch fire, going up in smoke. Shrinking his worldview to nothing but the fights ahead of him.

Could a demon die with its claws in Lilith’s throat?

And Lilith believed Sam would come back to her; that this revelation would drive him into her ranks. That he would become one of her monsters.

_I’ll guarantee you’ll be back with us, soon. And next time, you’ll come because you choose to._

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight. _Dean, I’m sorry_. Not even sure what he was apologizing for; except, _everything_. What he was, what he’d done, what he still had to do.

“Sam?” Ruby prompted. “Say something?”

And Sam’s fragile hold started to slip.

His eyes snapped open and he grabbed her elbow, winging her around and slamming her against the door so hard she yelped with pain. He pinned her there by her throat, feeling the Masque beating in his veins to the tune of Ruby’s fluttery pulse under his fingertips.

“Here’s how we’re gonna do this,” He constricted his hold, compromising her breathing. “You’re going to take me to whatever car you drove out here. You’re going to give me all the Masque you’ve got.”

“Sam,” Ruby’s throat heaved with a glottal clicking. “I don’t—have—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Sam dragged her forward, then slammed her back against the wall again. “You give me your stash, and then you get the _hell_ away from me and my family. I don’t want to see your face around here again. _Got it_?”

“All right, yes!” Ruby craned her neck, trying to draw in a breath away from his grip. “I understand!”

Sam released her and Ruby dropped, couching, her knees buckling as she struggled for breath. Sam snared the back of her shirt and thrust her out into the street, following her around the berth of the warehouse and under a rotten wooden awning the next building over. A gritty, washed-out classic Camero was parked underneath it, littered with flecks of the moldering overhang.

“Show me,” Sam bit the words between clenched teeth, and Ruby led him to the trunk, flipping it open and turning her head away.

There were a dozen gallon jugs of Masque stacked in the trunk, crowding up to the front; Sam didn’t know where Ruby had stolen them—or, more realistically, now, who had given them to her—but it threw into sharp relief the gauntlet he’d been forced to walk under the guise of being in control. Ruby had never gone to rendezvous with other demons, keeping some kind of cover while she played both sides. She’d never _been_ on his side; just pulling him toward hers, hanging around Sioux Falls and waiting for his weakness to pull him back to her, back to the techniques that spared him pain, back to the Masque that erased everything else.

Sam hooked one of the gallons with two fingers, watching the contents slosh and paint the inside of the plastic jug with filmy green foam. Ruby tracked his movement with eyes like glass in the dim light. “I’m sorry you had to find out about all of it this way.”

Sam snorted with quiet resignation. “Was anything you told me actually real?”

“I can really read minds,” Ruby said, and her tone was suddenly frigid. “And no, there _is_ no forgiveness, Sam. How the hell do you expect Dean to forgive you for something you _are_? He’ll hate you worse than he hates _any_ of us, because _you_ , he actually cared about. He trusted you. And you’re about to betray him.”

The feeling deserted Sam’s fingertips. “I’m not—”

“You think he’ll still love you after he finds out what you are? You’re a dreamer, Sam, but you’re not stupid. Dean will disown you.” Her tone dropped, softened. “You’d be better off with me. I still want Lilith gone, Sam. We could do it together.”

“It’s not happening.” Sam started unloading the trunk of Masque.

“ _Fine_. Go back to the Winchesters and wait for them to turn their backs on you. You’ll come crawling back to us sooner or later, Sam. Demons raised you; we’re your real family.”

Sam slammed the trunk shut and turned to face her. “Leave.” When everything held still, he barked, “ _Now_!”

Rolling her eyes, Ruby fished out her keys. “See you around, Sam.”

Sam watched her pull out in a gust of exhaust and a rumbling engine, waiting for her taillights to disappear before he stashed the Masque in the warehouse, refilled the flask Ruby had given him, and started running.

The burn in his lungs, the wind in his hair, couldn’t abolish the panic that was flailing its way to the surface of his skin. The only sound, the slap of his feet on pavement, then on dirt roads, coming closer to Bobby’s house; and there was a part of him that wanted to find Dean, to apologize, to explain everything. _Dean can help. Dean can fix this_.

But this was something that couldn’t be fixed.

Sam didn’t want to be _Sam_ anymore.

He ducked under the fence, ripping a gash into his shoulder with the coiled, bent end of the chained-link metal. He hauled himself up the porch steps and burst through the front door, almost colliding with Dean in the kitchen, five steps later.

“Whoa, slow down, pal!” Dean grabbed his shoulders, his eyes searching Sam’s face; reading something, there, something Sam couldn’t hide. “Sammy? What’s going on, man?”

Sam wrenched free of Dean’s hold, stepping back. Somehow his vision of Dean felt warped, like staring at him through a lens that compressed everything, made it smaller and duller.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice wobbled into Sam’s senses. “You with me?”

 _I thought I was_ , Sam meant to think, but he was afraid he’d said it out loud with the way Dean cocked his head and stared at him. Sam beat a hasty retreat, taking the stairs two at a time; not to the bedroom, to the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it. Sam felt it bulge under a strike from Dean’s shoulder, and then the knob started rambling. “Sam, why the hell are you bleeding? What happened out there? _Sam_ , unlock the friggin’ door!”

Sam put his back to the bowing wood and sank down until he was sitting, legs sprawled, hands on the tiled floor. With his head tilted back, he squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing bile and regret and a yawning pit of anguish.

For months, he’d wanted to know; for over a year, he’d searched for the answer to what he was, to why the demons had wanted him in the first place. He’d rather, he realized, be Faceless. He’d rather by anything else than _this_.

But even as a demon—subtracted, divided to the lowest denominator, the smallest digit, weakest—Sam had a purpose. Had a job.

Stop the demons. Climb the ranks. _Beat Lilith at her own game_.

Not for himself; not what he deserved.

For the Winchesters.

The pounding on the door stopped, and Sam heard Dean drop unceremoniously to the floor, heard the thump of his head against the wood and his angry muttering; which meant he must be sitting identical to Sam, with a solid wall separating them.

 Sam had the hysterical urge to laugh at the accuracy of that.

            He pulled out the flask, tipping his eyes down to stare at it; Ruby’s warning about hurting himself with it, about tying knots in the wiring of his brain because he’d overdosed on Masque, felt less like a danger, now, and more like an inevitability. How much worse could he get than _demon_?

            Had to be strong, strong enough to save his family; and after that, to split himself from them. To not be _family_ , to wander. There wasn’t a happy future for a demon.

            Sam grabbed onto a memory of popcorn and poor-quality television, the feeling of Dean or John or Mary ruffling his hair and the smells of Bobby’s house, his second home, and locked them away in a part of his heart that couldn’t be allowed to have a say; and he drank the poison for the second time that night, and let everything else slide away.

 

-X-

 

            Two weeks before Sam’s second League fight, John had a real belly-slithering sway of _wrongness_ that tipped his world on its side.

            Though, if he was being honest with himself, it started long before that. The seed was planted the first time Sam knowingly skipped training; fertilized with subsequent absences, watered with the dark circles under Sam’s eyes and the volatility of his temper; and finally, blooming into a stranger with a permanent glare and a chip on his shoulder broader and more infected even than Dean’s.

            Orlando. That was their next fight, hand-picked by Lilith, and nothing rubbed John worse than knowing his future and fate were at the whim of a demon. The exact kind of micromanagement he was trying to avoid, to escape from. But there was a benefit to the avoidance of undue struggle, and John knew picking his battles would serve him, and his family, better than total anarchy at this point.

            He read books about Orlando, all leading up to the demonic takeover of the city in the early nineteen-hundreds. It was one of the oldest cities to be demonically infested; not like Salt Lake City, where the population of belly-crawlers had doubled overnight and they’d taken it by force. But slow, creeping, a cancer that had spread through the city streets; bony, gnarled fingers strapping themselves piece by piece over the throat of the city and slowly choking the life from it. The only humans, by John’s estimation, still alive there had to be generations of families still rooted down by stubborn heritage and core values.

            John had to respect that, because he knew the feeling. It was that sense of loyalty to the lineage that had kept him coming back to Kansas, over and over again.

            But other than a history of what the city had been like before it had become a demon’s playground, John had no basis of information for building a strategy. Like Salt Lake City, they were going in blind; and that bothered him more than anything else at the moment. He’d known the Pits inside and out, known them like the back of his hand. Rushing a deadline without a plan left him feeling hollow and unstable.

            John glanced up from the book and the beer he was nursing at Bobby’s table when Sam walked in; there were bruise-dark shadows under his eyes and he looked faintly hungover, without the tinge of gray to his skin but with all of the squinting, rubbing his forehead like he was battling a headache.

            “Rough night?” John followed Sam’s movements to the fridge.

            “Rough _life_.” Sam yanked the door open, rooted around inside and pulled out a beer for himself. He reclined against the counter for the first drink, then leaned his crossed arms on the back of the chair beside John’s. “What are you doing?”

            John spun the book toward him. “Researching Orlando. Hoping I can find us some leverage to use against the demons.”

            Sam snorted. “Good old John, always have to have an answer for everything.”

            John stared at him. “You feelin’ all right, Sam?”

            “I feel _awesome_.” Sam tossed back more beer. “Why the mad rush toward the exits on this one? You scared I’ll slip up and you’ll have to step in, like New Orleans?”

            There was an undercurrent to Sam’s question that John couldn’t put his finger on. He shut the book and leaned back, arms crossed. “Now, what makes you ask that, Sam?”

            “Well, this is obviously a dry spell for you, right? I mean, you’re used to having a fight every week. Now you’ve got time off while I’m out there training, trying to get ready for this.” Sam let a pause slide in, just long enough for John to absorb the implication. “It makes sense that you’d start grasping for straws.”

            John slid his chair back and stood, arms still folded but feeling a chill prickle its way over his skin. “Is there something you want to say to me?”

            “You’re damn right there is.” Sam swept John with one long, slow glance that intensified the chill, before his eyes went startlingly blank.. “But why waste my time?

            Sam shook his head, finished off the beer and tossed the bottle into the sink, then headed for the door.

            “Where do you think you’re going?” John called after him.

            “Training. Like I said.” Sam punched the door open and slammed it shut behind him, and John dropped back into the chair, rubbing his forehead.

            “What the hell was _that_?” He muttered.

            He flipped the book open again after a minute of resounding silence, but couldn’t bring himself to read; the argument with Sam, laden down by tension and unspoken things, had left him feeling profoundly unsettled. His focus kept slipping, back to Sam’s sunken, furious eyes, and then, there at the end, the total lack of emotion. From a man who could speak full sentences with a look, Sam’s blankness had left John more worried than anything else.

            He nearly jumped when a hand touched his shoulder, half-twisting to look up at Mary, standing behind him.

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” She trailed off, reading his face easily. “John, what’s wrong?”

            “Had a little argument with Sam. It’s nothing.”

            Mary frowned. “Something’s wrong with him, John. He picked a fight with Dean last night, too.”

            John blinked. “You’re kidding me.”

            “I wish I was. Dean didn’t get any sleep last night. After Sam got back in, Bobby took Dean out to work the cars, they’ve been out there for five hours.”

            “Any idea what the problem is?”

            “Sam’s lashing out. Dean can’t explain it.”

            John stood, draping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “What do _you_ think, Mare?”

            She held his gaze, but the distance in her eyes was full of thought. “It could be a delayed reaction to what happened in the Reactor. He’s been suppressing it for months, now. But to lash out at Dean like he did, I think it’s a more conscious psychological effort. Sam knows what he’s doing and he’s making no effort whatsoever to hide it.”

            “Personality shift?” John suggested; and then, troubled, low and furious, “Did the demons do something to him?”

            “Aside from the obvious?” Mary’s forehead creased with sadness. “Not that I can tell. It looks like it’s all Sam, just—different. Different from what we’re used to.”

            “But maybe not influenced.” John said, dully, alerted by the inflection in her tone.

            “Sam’s seen awful things, John. Things that the rest of us could never understand. It’s not beyond the realm of reason that he’d start to blame us for it. We _are_ the ones who put him through all those Preliminary rounds. It’s possible he’s just now starting to inventory his life, and he’s decided that we’re the enemy.”

            John felt a punch of something he hadn’t felt in months: wariness of Sam. Fear of what Sam _was_ , underneath the flesh and bone, behind his eyes. “I’d welcome some advice right now, Mare.”

            “Helping Sam has never been easy.” Mary rested a hand on John’s chest. “You know that. The only one who’s ever really reached him through the fog is Dean.”

            “Except for the keys,” John reminded her; his own greatest failure, and personal triumph, grafted together and laid bare by the fear that he’d invoked in Sam.

            “This isn’t something you can shock him out of, John.” Mary slid her hand up to his unshaven jaw. “The best we can hope for is that it will pass on its own.”

            “If it doesn’t?”

            “Then we cross that bridge when we come to it.”

           

-X-

 

            “Man, you could fit that ass on a nickel.”

            John knew that Dean’s statement was meant to elicit some kind of negative reaction from Sam; but Sam wasn’t listening.

            If Salt Lake City had been strafing, strata, highbeams and blues, Orlando was a myriad of bruises. The arena itself was dark, the ring upraised rather than depressed, with balcony seating and chairs trailing away from the stage. The occasional burst of blood-red and dull-filtered gray light ushered them to their seats, and the music was gutting deathmetal that somehow managed to err on the inside of chilling, and avoided the caterwauling that made John want to lance his eardrums.

            _Tick. Tock_. The dropping beats at the beginning of the next song gave John another chill. Down below, a clique of girls, the focus of Dean’s attention, were strutting the arena floor in leather thongs and bikini-tops, the rest of their smooth skin exposed to the glare of the lights. They held signs scrawled in words John couldn’t make out from the distance; advertising something, as if their scantily-clad, slim figures weren’t stealing the focus of every man in the room, anyway.

            Dean sat beside John, with Sam on his other side; Sam, who’d been robotically invested in training for the last two weeks. The smoky shadows under his eyes had become almost as much a part of him as his hair, long and feathered and making a valiant effort to acquaint itself to his shoulders, now.

            Sam’s perpetual bad mood wasn’t the worst part; the worst part was watching Dean try so desperately to gain back Sam’s camaraderie. Accommodating, teasing, acting like everything in life was a joke. But John knew his son, knew the look in Dean’s eyes when he was being funny to hide a hurt, when he was wearing a game-face to mask the truth of just how deeply he was _feeling_.

            Nobody had come to put Sam into a waiting room this time; humans and demons kept a wide berth. The people of Orlando reminded John more of observers from a Pit than the stalwart mannequins from Salt Lake City; they weren’t as rowdy, keeping mostly to themselves, but a constant stream of conversation flowed under the grinding bass of the song, and John kept a constant vigilant rotation of his gaze from corner to corner of his immediate line of sight.

            “I need to take a leak.” Sam stood, suddenly, stretching. His constant attention to training had turned him into a rocky machine of muscle, practically bursting his shirts. John made a mental note to restock Sam’s wardrobe while they were near an actual store.

            Dean watched Sam go, something clouded and haunted in his eyes. John couldn’t withstand it for more than a minute. “Dean.”

            “Back in Salt Lake City, he, uh,” Dean swiped his tongue over his lips. “He was so worried about keeping us safe, that bellboy practically had to pry him off of us with a crowbar.”

            John saw Sam disappear through the crowd, fiddling something loose from the pocket of his jeans. “People change, Deano.”

            “Still sucks out loud.”

            John squeezed the back of Dean’s neck, an affirming touch. “Yeah, it does.” He stretched and got to his feet. “I’ll have a talk with Sam, see what I can—”A flicker of yellow caught his attention. “See.”

            Dean’s head swung up, following John’s gaze. “Dad?”

            John laid a hand on his shoulder. “Stay here.”

            John forced his way through the crowd, filtering through a collision of bodies, a wall of human meat until he reached the spot where he’d seen, just for a second, a glimpse of golden eyes.

            “Where are you?” John hissed, revolving a complete circle, ricocheting off of sequined ribs and dapper sleeves. “Where the hell are you?”

            A claw-like hand clamped onto his shoulder. “Right here, Johnny-boy.”     

            John swung around and the hand released him; squaring up to Azazel in a throng of people, John was surprised by how quickly everything seemed to go cold and blank, shrinking down to just the two of them.

            Azazel rattled a pair of keys in the tight space between their bodies, taunting him, and John swiped a hand around the cache to silence them. “That’s not gonna work on him anymore.”

            “Oh, so you really _did_ break Sammy of that nasty little habit, hm? Why, John, I’m impressed. You’re a real father to that boy. Never thought you’d have it in you.”

            “What do you want?” John grated.

            “What do _I_ want? _I_ want to see a fight, John, you’re the one who came looking for _me_.” When John didn’t take the bait, Azazel’s eyes hooded lazily. “I’m surprised to see you here. I was so _sure_ Sammy would be a chronic case of stress, curled up and going soft in a corner. Imagine my surprise to hear about his little out-of-the-hat _victory_ in Salt Lake City last month.”

            “Well, that’s just how Winchesters work.” John replied, leaving no question in the all-inclusive statement.

            Azazel sidled closer. “Is he, John? Is he— _really_ —all _Winchester_ spirit?”

            “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Calm, and rumbling, John watched Azazel; fingering the hair trigger on his temper, just about to explode.

            “It means that little Sammy isn’t the saint that Dean’s always believed.” Azazel’s chin almost brushed John’s shoulder. “And deep down, you know it. You don’t trust that…that little glint in his eye. That way he moves that just isn’t _quite_ human.”

            John fisted a hand in the front of Azazel’s jacket and shoved him back. “Keep your mouth shut.”

            “Oh, you won’t be hearing from me again, Johnny Winchester. No, no.” Azazel licked the bottoms of his top teeth. “The next time you see me, I’ll be scraping your son’s intestines off the walls of an arena. And some time between here and then,” He started to back away. “You’ll understand what Sammy _really_ is.”

            “You son of a—” John lurched after him, but Azazel was already gone.

            And John, winding his way back to the seats, corded with fury, was left to wonder which son Azazel was planning to scrape off the walls.

            The girls below were hopping off the upraised arena when John took his chair beside Dean; Dean, who looked even more tightly wired than John felt. Sam wasn’t back yet, and that was cause for concern in itself.

            “You see him?” Dean asked and John couldn’t lie.

            “Yeah, I saw him.”

            “ _And—_?”

            The lights went dim, plunging the audience into a void of murky silence for a heartbeat before a single scarlet spotlight spilled across the arena. John held his silence, watching the referee stepping over the chains and into the ring.

            “This isn’t right, where the hell is Sam?” Dean muttered.

            “Ladies and gentlemen,” The referee’s rounded voice boomed through the arena. “It is my privilege to welcome you to Orlando, Florida, and to the match we’ve all been waiting weeks to see!”

            Dean started to rise from his seat, head craning to search for Sam, and John laid a hand on his arm. “Dean, cool off. Sam will be here.”

            “What’s taking him so long?”

            “In the right corner,” The referee swept an arm and the crimson glow followed his gesture, falling across a man a little younger than Sam, round-faced with fair, curly hair and narrow eyes. “Our resident, undefeated champion—Max Miller!”

            There was a score of cheering, more perfunctory and predictable than anything, and the boy’s name gave John a prickle of unease that he couldn’t pin down. He shifted in his seat, leaning to the edge of it as the announcer turned.

            “And, in the opposite corner, we have the underdog of the Pit-fighting circle— _Sam Winchester_!”

            John’s stomach dropped prematurely to his knees; then sank lower than that when he saw Sam vault the chains into the empty corner, rolling stiffness from his shoulders and flexing his arms to loosen them.

            “Guess we know where he was,” Dean made no effort to hide the disappointment in his tone.

            “Looks like it.” Azazel’s warning question taunted the corners of John’s mind.

            The referee motioned Sam and Max Miller to the center of the ring, stooping to murmur to them; John could imagine the orders for a clean fight, running over the rules. Sam rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet, and Max Miller rubbed his arm, a constant, repetitive motion revealing black streaking in his veins. John felt the entire stadium vibrating with tension.

            Literally, vibrating.

            Dean perked up. “You feel that?”

            John’s feeling of warning turned to dread. “You said every demon has some kind of power.”

            “What’s your point?”

            The referee ducked out, leaving Sam bouncing his weight, back and forth, and Max facing him, suddenly, utterly motionless.

            John raked his hands back through his hair. “Oh, no.”

            A sonic blast of power rocked every seat in the room and flung Sam back against the chains; he sagged, gripping them with spread arms, his knees buckling, and was back in balance a second later. He charged Max, trying to sweep him but meeting a resisting force as the man’s demonic strength created a tornadic backlash. Sam was almost lifted off of his feet, skidding toward the corner of the ring. He grabbed the corner post and pushed off of it, snagging Max by the waist and pummeling him down on the mat.

            When Sam sprang back, Max was slower to rise; the referee stepped in with a downward cut of his hand, declaring a point in Sam’s favor.

            “Well, hey, it’s already longer than his fight against that Andy kid.” Dean pointed out, but John couldn’t share in his son’s hopefulness. Max Miller looked like a force to be reckoned with as he rose, pushing himself gingerly to his feet.

            Sam snarled something, some barbed comment under his breath, and it was quiet, barely echoing in the vastness of the room; but it was enough.

            Max’s head swiveled around, and even from far away John could see the spite in his eyes, the painful way he shuddered in air from his bruised body.

            A vacated chair in the front row sailed for Sam’s head; Sam ducked it effortlessly, almost like he’d seen it coming, letting it smash against the corner post and shatter into four pieces. The overhead spotlights creaked and swayed in sweeps, flinging stripes of light across the arena and the audience.

            Dean clamped a hand over the dogtags hanging against his hoodie, tucking them down against his chest. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

            “Telekinetic,” John said bleakly.

            There a sharp pulse of a scream as a woman’s purse ripped from her hand and sailed into the ring; Sam put up his hand, catching it without so much as a glance, and swung it in a hard arc toward Max’s head. The demon’s eyes flicked to the purse and it flipped out of Sam’s fingers, bumping uselessly across the arena.

            John had a hair-raising feeling of colliding powers, just another sensation that had no placement, that made no sense.

            Sam hooked for Max’s head, then stopped.

            He was vibrating; fighting a kinetic pull against his body. Max Miller, forcing Sam back with his _mind_.

            The sheer, undiluted display of strength left John feeling nakedly human, hollow.

            Sam broke free with a surge of movement, lunging forward, and Max reacted fluidly, pure instinct, just a twitch of his head.

One of the chains around the arena snapped loose, grappling itself around Sam’s throat and wrenching him back.

John didn’t have a chance to grab Dean before he was out of his seat, leaping over the back of the row in front of him, pinioning toward the arena. John cussed under his breath and pelted after Dean, keeping one eye on the fight; watching as Sam jerked and spasmed, his back arching off the floor, fingers hauling at the coil around his throat that refused to loosen. Max stared down at him with pitiless calm; Sam’s glottal heaving was lost in the swelling murmurs of the crowd.

 _Call it, dammit!_ John’s mind screamed a prayer but he couldn’t waste the precious breath that carried him down toward the ring.

The referee stepped in at last, gripped Max’s elbow from behind and yanked him back a step; when Max broke eye contact the chain must’ve loosened, John thought, it must’ve finally, mercifully gone slack, because Sam went eerily still, flat on his back with one arm flopping outstretched on the mat.

Dean slammed flat hands on the arena’s edge and vaulted over the chains, almost colliding with the referee, who put out a hand to stall him without letting go of Max. “I’m sorry, but no outside help allowed in the ring—”

“Get your hands offa me!” Dean snapped loose of the man’s hold, skidding to his knees beside Sam. John lurched in after him, but held back; held himself between Max Miller, the referee, and Dean working feverishly over Sam.

Dean’s fingers stripped the chain off with hurried, fumbling movements and threw it aside, then cupped his hand over Sam’s mouth and nose. He didn’t move, or speak, just felt, for a pause that seemed to stretch on for minutes.

“He’s breathing. Barely.” Dean leaned over Sam to grip his head in both hands. “Sam? Sam, hey, c’mon back, come on back…Sam!”

A hush of anticipation had fallen over the crowd, and John’s pulse hammered in his wrists; thinking they couldn’t have dragged themselves this far just for Sam to die in a fight against Azazel’s prodigy, couldn’t lose Sam _now_ , after everything.

“Sammy?” Dean leaned so close their foreheads nearly bumped. “ _Sam?_ ”

Sam whooped in a hacking cough, his eyes flipping open, and John was surprised by a smattering of heartfelt cheers from the audience. Dean pillowed Sam’s head with one hand, gripping the front of his shirt with the other.

“Hey, hey, easy, just take it easy,” Dean coaxed.

“Dean…” Sam’s eyes rolled dazedly, his hand reaching up to knot itself in Dean’s hoodie, near his shoulder. John felt the first bright sweetness of relief; this was the Sam he knew, if beaten, _alive_ , and reaching for Dean. Always reaching for Dean, an anchor, a constant. With bands of overlapping red on his throat from the chain’s deadly pressure, Sam pulled himself up with Dean’s support. “Doesn’t hurt, I’m fine.”

“You gotta be kidding me, dude, he almost strangled you. _You stopped breathing_ , Sam, you could’ve—”

Sam rested his forehead, for a second, against Dean’s shoulder.

And then Sam shoved him back, sprawling Dean with his weight balanced on his hands braced behind him. Sam staggered to his feet, panting, staring down at Dean’s stunned face. “I said, _I’m fine_.”

He swung around, staring past John at Max Miller, and John saw something violent in Sam’s eyes that made his hackles rise.

Sam lurched toward Max. “I’m gonna tear your heart out, you son of a—!”

“Sam!” John bolstered Sam back with a hand, the referee restraining Max Miller, and hatred snapped like lightning in the air. John didn’t take his hand back until Sam’s breathing slowed to agitated huffs, his weight shifting from foot to foot again. “Stay on target, son.”

Sam bobbed his head just once, his eyes still trained on his opponent.

John gave Dean a hand up, holding the chain for him to duck under, and throwing one last look back at Sam.

Sam didn’t seem aware of them; didn’t seem aware of how close he’d come to being killed. His entire world was filled with the sight of Max Miller, with the thought of dragging the fight out from under him.

Swallowing, completely, that rare glimpse of their old Sam.

A feeling of cold retreat drew John away, and he followed Dean from the arena.

They took closer seats, this time, vacated and still offering a decent view. The referee chided Max for foul play, then squared the men off again. What John found uncanny wasn’t Max’s perpetual immobility; it was the way Sam matched it. Going still, palms outturned, arms loose at his sides, Sam’s eyes fluttered shut.

Max Miller drew in a deep breath, and when he blew it out it escaped with a blast of power, ripping up the floor mats and pitching them toward Sam. Sam ducked and leveled out, dodging fluidly. When the corner of a mat clipped his arm, stripping a white welt onto his skin that glowed pink under the light, he didn’t even flinch. His eyes, half-wild with intent, drew him mercilessly toward his goal.

He met Max in a space that allowed no leeway for Max’s power; their bodies collided, tumbling back against the chains, and John heard the wet, meaty smack of Sam’s fist on Max’s jaw. The demon rolled sideways from under him, trying to trip Sam up, but the attempt was agitated and off-balance, and that was when it struck John, the truth of this fight.

Max Miller wasn’t skilled at close-quarters fighting; his technique was completely married to his abilities. Honed, powerful, nearly unconquerable. But when he was backed into a corner, his powers nullified, he was as good as useless.

Sam had already parsed out as much, and the tides of the fight turned on a dime.

Sam never stopped moving; half-strangled, necktied with bruises and taking a few wild hits despite Max’s lack of skill, he hardly even slowed. Hammering blows that stayed just on this side of street fighting, Sam dodged or blocked every object Max threw his way; there was a personal hatred in the line of Sam’s shoulders, in the way he moved. Sam was pissed, Sam was vengeful, and Sam was going to take it out of Max Miller’s blood and body, without shame.

And Sam was reckless.

He missed the opportunity to dodge the next chair Max managed to levitate toward him and it scraped across his face, opening a slice of skin at his hairline. John saw Dean rock his hips against the scooped back of the seat, knew how badly his son wanted to be in there, taking on this fight by Sam’s side. Logic forced him to stay, when instinct told him to _go_.

Sam lost his footing on a sidestep, swiping the blood from his eyes. John saw him blinking dizzily, the first lines of pain bracketing his face. He breathed for them both, _Don’t you quit now, Sam._

The referee called in the second breather, and John saw how the momentary respite seemed to settle Sam. He shook it off, regaining his footing, prowling his corner with hungry eyes watching Max; in the opposite corner, Max was bent over with his hands on his knees. The collar of his shirt has strained loose of its threads, hanging off one bony shoulder, and a stark plum-colored bruise blossomed on his fish-belly pale skin. John didn’t think it was from the fight.

The referee dropped an arm and Max’s eyes distended, his body convulsing with power, ripping a canvas of objects from the audience and hurtling them down toward the ring. Sam went after Max like a man possessed, ignoring the smaller objects Max glanced off his shoulders; he pummeled into the other man’s throat, hooked his legs out from under him and slammed Max’s face to the rough, unsanded bottom of the arena, stripped of mats. There was a collective intake of breath as Sam hopped back, and Max rose to his feet. Blood streamed from a dozen splinters wedged into his face, one eye swelling shut around a spillfall of scarlet.

John tasted copper and clenched his molars.

And in the time it took Max to regain his bearings, it was over; Sam snapped a kick to the base of his spine, and Max’s scream pierced every present ear as he tumbled immobile to the floor. Sam landed another solid punch to his spine, crouching over him, and then he flipped Max over and stared into his eyes for one moment. Then two.

Sam hauled Max up, shoved his paralyzed body carelessly against the chains, and landed a kick to his lower abdomen that resounded like the snap of a branch through the arena. Blood squirted from Max’s lips and he folded over bonelessly at Sam’s feet; he didn’t rise again.

At first there was only silence; and John, in shock, watched as Sam turned to face them. A fine mist of Max’s blood dappled Sam’s face; he scrubbed it off with his wrist and trudged toward the chains that encompassed the ring.

And that was when the clapping started.

John wasn’t sure where it was sourced, who had the gall to cheer for the demon-killer in a big city. But it was infectious, contagious, and with little warning Sam was standing in a tumult to rival the Pits, hundreds of hands clapping, feet stomping. All for him, all because Max Miller was dead at his feet.

When Sam swept the chains up and joined John and Dean, he almost looked smug, moving with newfound swagger in his stride.

“We need to go,” John said, and Sam shrugged.

“Sure. Okay.”

The spotlight followed them out, but John didn’t have time to feel exposed; didn’t feel anything, really, besides a crawling sense of unsettlement. Even staying close, beside Dean and behind John, Sam seemed distant, wrapped inside his own thoughts.

The Orlando evening was balmy and damp, a promise of late-evening rain on the air. The Impala glistened with a diamond-drop coat of dew, and John was relieved to see that she, at least, was safe and singular. He had his keys out when he heard a breathless cry of, “ _Wait_!”

He stopped, turning, Sam and Dean flanking him.

The man that approached them was sporting shoulder-lengthy ashy hair and round, soft eyes. He stopped abreast of them, bending over and breathing heavily, and John felt a prickle of concern.

“Everything all right?”

“I’m not as young or as—agile as I used to be.” The man straightened, with some effort it seemed, and Dean snapped his fingers and pointed.

“Hey, I know you! You’re that priest from Salt Lake City.”

“Pastor, actually. And yes, I saw you there, too.” The man set his shoulders. “My name is Jim Murphy, and I have a proposal for you.”

John felt a spark of hope and disbelief. “We’re listening.”

“Not here.” Jim shook his head. “I have a motel a few towns over. If you wouldn’t mind following me…we need to talk.”

 


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Two: Advice from a Sinner, Beer from a Saint

 

            Jim Murphy’s motel room was Dean’s idea of a resort.

            Big cities didn’t go half on anything; all of the regality had been sapped dry of the self-governing establishments, but here where the demons reigned there was a sense of fineness and splendor that was hard to take for granted. Dean wondered if the irony, in that, was the way it coaxed people toward a future where Lilith’s kind could govern _everything_. An entire world of fairy-lights and alabaster that hid decay.

            Tempting.

            The hotel was seventeen floors with an open center, balconies ribbed in white marble columns stacking up to a stained-glassed dome in the center of the ceiling. The floor scooped away from the middle of the main lobby and formed a blue-green, gold-trimmed swimming pool. There were two kids splashing in the shallow end while their parents leaned against the railing across from Dean, whispering with their heads together.

            Rich; every part of them, from silk clothes to gold bangles and well-fed bodies.

            Sam lounged against the nearest marble pillar, chin tucked, eyes closed. His breathing was so shallow, Dean found himself checking for it every few minutes; noticing the fine film of sweat on Sam’s temples, rolling beads down his cheeks. Before he could ask him what was wrong—and _something_ was wrong, it had to be, the way Sam had shoved him in the arena proved that—Jim Murphy and John left the concierge desk and joined them.

            “It’s the twelfth floor,” Jim led them to an elevator on one wall, the doors wrapped in ornate twists of polished gold, woven together and twisting apart when Jim pressed the arrow indicating _Up_. The doors opened to a plush white interior; everything here was plush.

            “A guy could get used to this,” Dean commented, stepping inside.

            “It’s certainly a far cry from my cathedral,” Jim agreed. “But sometimes a little frivolity is in order. It keeps us humble.”

            “Or makes you greedy.” Dean tipped his head back to stare at the roof of the elevator as it whooshed up under them; banishing, with force, the memory of his last elevator ride, and how that venture had ended.

            “Do you really think you could ever want something this grand, day after day?”

            Dean found himself without an answer.

            The doors opened to the twelfth-floor wrap-around balcony, and Dean leaned over the railing, staring down into the pool; then tilted his head up. The stained-glass dome was boxed in by a mural that depicted an angry God with his back turned to a man as smoky shadows encompassed him on all sides, stripping flesh from his bones.

            “Right, that’s not at all disturbing,” Sam muttered beside him.

            “Nice color scheme, though.” Dean noted. From a distance, it wasn’t easy to tell how macabre the display actually was; the brightly-colored paints popped and exploded like springtime, a buoyant contrast to the mural itself.

            “It’s a little telling of the times. People are so attracted to the decoration, they fail to notice the message behind it.” Jim led the way to an offshoot hallway with another stained-glass window at the far end. “It’s room twelve-twenty-five.”

            Sam, with his long legs, reached the door first, and leaned against the wall beside it until the others caught up. Jim ushered them inside and closed the door quickly behind them, sliding the deadbolt shut.

            Dean’s first thought was of Lilith’s private office.

            The floor was depressed away from them, toward an arrangement of chairs and couches in the dead-center of the room; on second glance, it was the only real similarity to the Reactor. There was a small kitchenette across from the door, a long white table on their right, and a glass-paneled door on the wall behind it, opening up to a balcony that overlooked the city. A side door on their left led to the bedroom; Dean caught a glimpse of a king-sized bed on his way down to the couch.

            “Please, sit.” Jim motioned them all, and Sam plopped unceremoniously into a cushy armchair. John knocked his feet off of the white table on his way to join Dean on the couch. “Can I get you any refreshments?”

            Dean bit off the request for beer that found its way to his tongue; asking a pastor for beer was a little sacrilegious even by his standards.

            “Anything you’ve got would be fine.” John said, clipped and slightly cautious.

            When Jim came back from the kitchenette’s mini-fridge with four beers anyway, Dean found himself warming to the man.

            “Don’t ever let someone tell you that a little drinking every now and then is a sin. Even Jesus Christ shared wine with his disciples.” Jim distributed the beers, lowered himself into the chair across from Sam, popped the tab on his beer and held it up in a toast. “Everything in moderation.”

            “I can drink to that, padre.” Dean raised his beer as well, then threw back a long swallow. John followed suit, but Sam just spun the can around from palm to palm, his eyes faraway with thought.

            “What’s this all about, Pastor Jim?” John asked, taking a small toss of beer and studying Jim over the rim of the can.

            “I was impressed by what Sam could do out there.” Jim said. “A little unorthodox, there, at the end. But he’s doing something that no other man, woman or child has ever done in these cities.”

            “What’s that?” John’s voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed wariness.

            “Giving these demons a run for their money.” Jim’s voice was flint-hard as he set the beer can on the round, low center table. “This city, _every_ city, they’ve all walked on broken glass for decades, too terrified to work against the likes of Lilith and Azazel. But your boy, Sam, here, he has the power in him to turn the tables.”

            “I’m not a gun for hire,” Sam shot back belligerently.

            “I’m not looking to hire you for anything, Sam. I want to sponsor you.”

            Dean felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. A silent, _What?_ , in his eyes, in his unhinged jaw, looking from Jim to John and back again.

            “Why _me_?” Sam demanded.

            “I think I just answered that question, Sam.” Jim shifted to the edge of his seat, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. “Seeing what you can do out there…for the first time in my life, I believe I’ve seen a man with the power to tear down the strongholds Lilith has built. I’m no prophet, but I’d wager that it’ll all factor down to you, Sam. I truly believe that.”

            “I’m not some saint you can sell a package too.” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You sure there’s not something else here that I should know about?”

            Dean kicked him around the edge of the table.

            “You have every right to be suspicious. For all you know, I could be a demon trying to buy you off.”  Jim’s mouth curved in a dry smile. “But I’m being honest with you, Sam. I swear before God—and from a pastor, that carries a _bit_ of weight.”

            “Then what’s the stakes?” Sam asked suspiciously. Dean swung a glance from Sam to Jim.

            “I’ll provide whatever your family needs: food, clothing, a place of shelter, spiritual guidance and protection, anything. In turn, all you have to do is put forth your best effort to turn the empire of the demons into ruin. Prove every paradigm of theirs wrong, and never stop fighting.”

            “That’s awfully generous of you,” John said, and the slight catch in his voice showed Dean just how stunned he was.

            “You find, in this economy of ours, that a man who spends his whole life reaping what he’s sown doesn’t always have a need for the harvest.” Jim replied. “I have more than enough money to spare, and why not invest it into a good cause?”

            Sam rose suddenly. “I need—bathroom.”

            “Just inside the bedroom door.” Jim motioned, and Sam almost tripped over himself moving in that direction.

            “You sure about this, Pastor Jim?” John asked, and Dean wanted to kick him, too.

            “Dad, he’s sure.” The words jumped from Dean’s mouth, and he glanced at Jim. “You’re sure, right?”

            “I’ve had a month to mull it over, since Salt Lake City. Yes, I’m sure.”

            John shook Jim Murphy’s hand. “Then we’re thankful, and you’ve got yourself a deal. I know Sam, and I know he’ll do his best.”

            _Sam_. Dean glanced toward the bathroom, then pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

            The sink was running, the bathroom door partially open; Dean shut the bedroom door and sidled into the bathroom. It was almost predictably ornate, decked out with a white porcelain Jacuzzi, more murals, more marble. Jim was right, all the decoration wore thing after a little while.

            Sam was leaning his hands on the edges of the sink; his shirt was a crumpled pile at his feet, and as Dean watched he lifted one hand to rub the plum-colored marks on his throat, like he could scrub them completely clean.

            “It’s catchin’ up, huh?” Dean rocked his weight against the doorframe.

            Sam straightened, his hand falling from his neck, tipping his head back. “Can you leave me alone for five minutes?”

            “Yeah, I dunno, Sam. You’re not exactly the poster boy for stability these days.”

            “Thanks, Dean.”

            “Hey, I’m just the messenger.” Dean moved to stand behind Sam, the mirror casting their reflections back at them. “But, seriously, Sam, the way you charged that maxed-out demon…pretty reckless.”

            “I had it under control.”

            “Dude, if the ref hadn’t stepped in you’d be a goner.”

            Sam flinched violently, like the words had sunk in deep, and rankled. He swiped a towel off the back of the toilet, twisted the knob on the sink to coax out a gush of hot water, wet the towel and rubbed it over his bruised neck. He met Dean’s eyes in the mirror. “Quit worrying about me, and start worrying about yourself.”

            “Hey, I’m not the one going toe-to-toe with demons, Sam. Your ass is the one on the line, not mine.”

            Sam sneered humorlessly. “Just go back out there with Jim and John. I’m _fine_.”

            “Every time you say that, something bad happens pretty fast.”

            Sam’s expression rearranged suddenly into one of condescending. “The worst thing that’s gonna happen, Dean, is if you actually stick around.” He jerked his head at the door. “Get _out_.”

            Anger coursed hot and invasive through Dean’s veins. He pointed sharply to Sam. “We’re not done.”

            “Yes, we are.”

            There was something there, more final than a conversation, more conclusive than Dean was really willing to acknowledge. He felt Sam’s eyes on him as he shrugged away and turned toward the door, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of cold deadness that crawled from his adopted brother’s gaze.

 

-X-

 

            “I want my own place.”

            Sam’s voice seemed to swell through the silence of the Impala eight hours north of Orlando, almost to the border. John glanced at Dean with exhausted eyes, a silent question there, asking if he knew about any of this. Dean hefted one shoulder and scrunched his mouth.

            _News to me_.

            “What are you talking about, Sam?” John asked; there was a hint of crankiness to his voice, but Dean figured he had a right to it. The meeting with Pastor Jim had opened a lot of doors; on the other hand, they still had Sam’s fight to deal with, and the fact that some of his techniques had bordered on illegal.

            Sam’s head was tipped against the window; he looked a little sallow, gleaming with sweat even with the windows rolled down to a lukewarm Florida in early October. But there was no leeway in his eyes when he said, “I want my own house.”

            “I thought you liked Bobby.” Dean protested.

            “ _Bobby_ is fine,” Sam’s tone was heavy with implication. “But I’ve poured blood, sweat and tears into this fight, and I’ve never seen a single cent of anything we’ve earned. I think I deserve a little payback.”

            “So you want us to buy a house?” Dean half-turned on the bench seat and caught Sam’s eyes; void and calm. A sea without any wind; eerie.

            “No,” Sam enunciated slowly. “ _I_ want to buy a house so _I_ can move out. You can stay at Bobby’s.”

            Dean felt a rift splitting in his chest. “You’re kidding me.”

            “Why does everything have to be a joke with you?” Sam demanded.

            “Do I look like I’m laughing?”

            “Enough.” John cut in, and Dean subsided, reluctantly. John glanced at the rearview mirror. “What brought this on, Sam?”

            “I just think I deserve a little independence. Maybe you guys own me, but that doesn’t mean I have to live on the world’s tightest leash. I want off of it, and you can’t stop me. So you can help me, or…” He trailed off significantly.

            “Or what?” Dean was daring him, _knew_ he was daring him, to finish that thought.

            “Or I walk.”

            And just like that, the fights became Sam’s leverage. Dean wanted to fling back at him that he couldn’t make it very far without a Handler, they wouldn’t let him; but that brought on a backwash of guilt and fury, _Sam’s not our property_ , and when he glanced at Sam sideways he saw the vicious triumph in his eyes, knew that Sam had plotted every move of this conversation, trapping Dean with his back against the wall.

            “You got anything in mind?” John asked, defusing the mounting strain of emotions that battered the walls of the car.

            “Yeah, I do, actually.” Sam’s tone, and body stance, relaxed. “I’ll find a fixer-upper somewhere in Sioux Falls. And I want half of whatever resources Jim Murphy has at his disposal.”

            “It’s not my place to argue that, Sam. Truth is, it’s all yours by right, anyway.” John said, and Dean wanted to take a swing at him, too. _Who the hell’s side are you on?_

            “Thanks.” Sam lounged back in the seat, assuming he’d won the battle.

            “ _But_ ,” John stressed the word, and Sam raised his eyebrows. “Don’t think this lets you off the hook. I expect to see you at Bobby’s for meals and training at least four times a week. Understood?”

            “Meals, sure. I’ll eat with you guys. Training?” Sam shook his head. “No offense, but I like the regimen I’m on right now.”

            Dean mimed him exaggeratedly, swiveling around to stare out the gritty windshield. He saw John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, white-knuckling, a pure indication of stress.

            “I noticed a few of those moves you made weren’t exactly in the rulebook, Sam.” John’s tone swayed toward reprimanding.

            “You guys told me rules are made to be broken.”

            “Not all of them, genius.” Dean snapped.

            “Dean.” John rebuffed.

            “Look, I tried it your way and I almost got killed. More than once.” Sam pointed out. “The way I see it, I’m saving my own life. Why can’t you just be okay with that?”

            “The rules about moves are put in place for a reason, Sam.” John said. “If we debase ourselves to being that cruel, how are we any better than demons? Somewhere along the way, humans drew a line in the sand and said they wouldn’t cross it.”

            “And you’ve got one foot on the right side and the other one hanging off the grave, pal.” Dean added. “If you’re gonna have some big-wig sponsor, you gotta quit riding the pine and get back on the good side.”

            “Dean’s right, we can’t take the risk.” John said. “Jim Murphy liked your style, he likes where you’re headed, but he noticed, same as the rest of us, that that fight wasn’t by the book. You need to be more careful.”

            Sam muttered something indistinguishable under his breath.

            “What?” Dean half-turned to face him again.

            “I said, Jim Murphy can’t be at every single fight I’m in.” Sam’s breath fogged the glass. “What he doesn’t know, won’t kill him.”

            It dawned across Dean’s stubborn mind, right then, that there was something _seriously_ wrong with Sam.

 

-X-

 

            One week later, Sam was gone.

            There weren’t any words, really, that Dean could find, to explain how he knew it; by now he was used to Sam waking up at odd hours, if he slept at all, disappearing to train and coming back smelling tangy and salty and with that dead-end expression.

            This was different; when Dean opened his eyes, rocked his head sideways and saw Sam’s rumpled bed, empty like always, he felt a right hook to the gut knocking the breath out of him. _This is it_.

            He threw the blanket off and thundered downstairs, swinging into the study to find Bobby perched at the desk, immersed in a book.

            “Hey, Bobby. Have you seen—?”

            “Sam’s gone.” Bobby didn’t look up.

            Dean’s breaths hitched, his fears confirmed. “You sure?”

            “Mm-hm.” Bobby turned the page. “Came down about an hour ago. Talked with me a piece, said he was movin’ along. But he was quiet, for the most, real quiet. Took off as soon as I let up on ’im.”

            Dean raked his hands back through his hair, “Great. Just _great_ ,” and dropped his arms to his sides. “You see which way he went?”

            “Nope. Sorry.” Bobby paused. “Sioux Falls ain’t a big city, I can think of maybe one house that a man could use to make ends meet. I’ll bet ya my trust fund that’s where the kid’s headed.”

            “Thanks.” Dean slung his jacket off the back of the chair at the kitchen table, then stopped, knotting it between his fingers.

            “Somethin’ on your mind, son?”

            Dean dropped the jacket again and sniffed. “I’m not going after him.”

            “Why the hell _not_?”

            “Why?’ Dean echoed corrosively. “Because he doesn’t _want_ me to, Bobby, that’s why. Sam’s doing his own thing.”

            “He’s _tailspinnin’_.”

            Dean swiped a beer from the fridge, popped the top off and tossed back a swallow. “His life. His choice.”

            “You don’t mean that.”

            “I don’t?” Dean shot him a heavy-eyed glare.

            “ _No_ , you _don’t_.” Bobby shoved his chair back and rose to his feet. “You’re hurt. And you’re angry. And you’re takin’ it out the only way you Winchesters know how. _By pullin’ back so you don’t have to deal with it anymore_!” Bobby’s voice knocked through a few decibels, and Dean regarded him with stiff resignation.

            “Yeah, well, there’s nothing in the book that says I gotta clean up Sam’s messes for him.” Dean replied flatly.

            “Since when is _Dean Winchester_ a coward?” Bobby demanded. “You wanna talk to Sam? Then _sack up and do it_!”

            “Don’t lecture me, Bobby.”

            “I won’t tolerate your dysfunctional, brains-in-the-ass _attitude_ under my roof, boy! Your daddy and I taught you better than that when you were out here trainin’. You don’t run _away_ from a problem, you run toward it and make it obey _you_.”

            “Nobody makes Sam do anything.”

            “You are _missin_ ’ the point.”

            “No, I hear ya.” Dean insisted, and Bobby scoffed. “Bobby! _I hear you_ , all right? I’ll talk to him.” Dean finished the beer and lobbed the long-necked bottle into the sink. “Just not right now.”

            “Then _when_?”

            “I dunno. Let him get settled in first.”

            But Sam settled in quickly; faster, even, than Dean had expected, far faster than what he was prepared for. Sam was back on Bobby’s doorstep by nightfall, hair slicked back, breathing hard like he’d run all the way from town. When Dean opened the door and found him standing on the stoop, heaving air into his lungs, all Sam said was, “Dinner?”

            Jim Murphy sent them money; Dean never knew who delivered it, but it was in the mailbox twice a week. All they had to do was call him, and anything they needed materialized at Bobby’s house. For a pastor, Dean thought, he had pretty decent connections.

            No one ever mentioned how some of the food they had to ask for, some of the money, and clothing, went missing. Sam was a vulture, a carrion crow who swooped in for supplies and to fulfill his promise with meals, and vanished again.

            Dean avoided him, trying to fill in his empty days with other things: playing his guitar, researching things in Bobby’s library. Dean took his truck down to bolts and scrubbed her inside and out, in the bare, raw cold of October, until his skin was chapped and pulling tight across his muscles.

            The coffee Mary made for him didn’t do much to warm him up.

            Sam was different every time Dean saw him; sometimes almost relaxed, a little like his old self. He could chuckle at Bobby’s redneck jokes and he ate with a perpetual, plastered-on smile that, if Dean squinted right, almost looked familiar.

            Most of the time, he was coarse, rough-edged, and silent. No one could coax him out of that. When John asked him how his new place was, Sam simply said it was decent, and left it at that. Sam refused every beer and bottle of water Dean pushed his way; he was losing weight but gaining muscle, hollowing out and buffing up and _changing_ , always _changing_.

            “What the hell do you do all the time out there?” Dean asked one night, when Bobby all but shoved them into the study and told them to sit tight while the adults cleaned up from the chili dinner.

            “Just…train, really.” It was a better night, one where Sam didn’t have his words under lock and key.

            “Ever heard _too much of a good thing_ , Sam?”

            “Yeah, well, I don’t really have a choice, do I? Lilith’s not gonna go easy on me just because I’m—” He broke off, a rictus of pain twisting his features, and stared down into his hands.

            “Because you’re _what_ , Sam? Faceless? A kickass fighter?”

            “Forget about it.” The door slammed shut behind Sam’s eyes, blanking out his features. “You wouldn’t understand.”

            Dean held on to the suspicion that Sam was taking some kind of drug; but Bobby didn’t have many books about narcotics, and what little Dean read didn’t exactly fit Sam’s symptoms. Mostly because he didn’t know what Sam’s symptoms _were_ ; how much was symptomatic, really, and how much was just _Sam_.

            The days stretched on, and Sam always came around for four dinners a week; and Dean never caught a glimpse of him in between.

            He told himself Sam was too good; he was covering his tracks.

            But there was a harder truth to it all that Dean couldn’t always ignore: that he just wasn’t looking hard enough.

            A part of him didn’t want to find Sam.

 

-X-

 

            Sam liked Pastor Jim, because he didn’t as questions.

            Sam had a cell phone of his own, now, one that he hardly ever used; when he did, it was to call Jim for supplies. Food rations. Bed sheets, a blanket. Booze. The bare essentials. Things he could’ve asked Bobby for, except when it came down to it he didn’t want to ask; didn’t want to be lectured or harped on or told to come back to the house.

            It was a mystery, to Sam, how the people you loved the most in the world could be the might righteous pains in your ass.

            At first, he was sick of it: sick of Dean’s guitar playing and shadowing, sick of John’s brooding silences, Mary’s thoughtful stares, Bobby’s surly disposition. But as time went on and training continued, and Sam kept drinking, and sinking further into a laconic state of uncaring, he went numb to it all.

            There was a distant knowledge buried there: that these were glimpses of a life Sam had wanted so badly he’d ached for it. He’d _killed_ to keep it. But when it came down to it, no demon was allowed into that life. It wasn’t his future to embrace. And eventually regret receded into annoyance; because they flaunted it, and still called him family. So Sam ran; away from them, and deeper into all that he was meant to be.

            He filled his days with training: sit-ups and crunches until his torso burned, pull-ups on the steel pipe above his makeshift nest of sheets, until his arms gave up the ghost and turned to sluggish mud. The necklace of bruises from the fight in Orlando lingered, a constant reminder of how badly he’d slipped up.

            Not just in the fight; not just in letting his guard down around a monster. But in turning to Dean for help. Old habits died hard, but Sam wasn’t the shaggy-haired adopted brother anymore. He was the warrior, and the cosmic black sheep, and he was going to bear the load alone or buckle under it. And he was bound and determined not to buckle.

            Sam shadow-boxed a punching bag that Jim Murphy sent to him; closed himself off to _missing_ , to remembering the times when he’d had whole conversations with Dean in just the slap of fists and the staccato gusts of captured breath. Even that language couldn’t transmit everything Sam was, everything he felt. There weren’t any words, in English or Basque or sparring, that could make sense of the face he saw in the rutted, stained mirror of the first-floor bathroom.

            Sam liked the house; liked its creaks and its leaking pipes because it somehow reflected how he felt. Nothing here was finished, a renovation in-progress when the people of Sioux Falls had abandoned their city for greener pastures. The walls were sparsely insulated, chunks of the ceiling baring ugly spaghetti-thin guts of wiring. There was electricity intermittently, for the same reason, Sam assumed, that it was there for Bobby: no one had ever bothered to shut it off when they deserted.

            In its bleakness, its hollowness, its raw quality, Sam could relate.

            Its greatest attribute was in being a block away from the warehouse where he’d stored the Masque.

            After spending the first month rationing, Sam couldn’t do it anymore; food, and other drinks, lost some of their appeal. There wasn’t anything that made him feel rejuvenated or invincible like Masque did. Sam could train longer, fight harder on a steady regimen; and now he knew better than to go into a fight on a low dose. He’d tried that in Orlando, he’d crept away from the Winchesters to sate himself, but it hadn’t been enough. Not against Max Miller’s telekinesis. Sam needed more than strength: he needed non-feeling, he needed to detach completely.

            He was almost there; and knowing his own dependency was terrifying. But in a strange way, it was also welcome. Life was a rip-tide, and Sam needed a solid stone to anchor himself to. And unlike family and future, Masque was something that wouldn’t desert him, wouldn’t let him down; his portion, taken by his own hands. He deserved it, as much as he deserved the supplies from Jim.

            Through it all, he tried his best to show up sober for dinners; because Dean would be suspicious otherwise, and a suspicious Dean was a dangerous one. Patterning out his weeks left Sam with enough time to let the Masque soak every fiber of his being, chasing the pain away. Dulling the receptors and sharpening everything else, eyes and ears and sense of smell, until the world popped like stars around him, constantly. 

            If Ruby had been there, Sam would’ve asked if that was normal; the vibrancy, the sharpness of his world.

            But there was only one way, really, to know if the drug was doing its full job. And that was how Lusiver found him.

            When it rained, the roof leaked. It should’ve been snowing, it was just on this side of cold enough, but the cold clouds belched streamers of water rather than fluffy flakes. Sam sat with his back to the wall, shirtless, legs outstretched, arms hanging loose in his lap. A serrated silver knife swung lazily between two fingers, a plastic jug with its middle gouged resting against his hip. Its sides were still painted foamy green from the slosh of the Masque he’d finished; the rich mustard-smoky remnants bearded his chin. Head tossed back, Sam watched the roof leak; and didn’t see, or feel, the deep self-inflicted gash on his arm, drooling blood down his wrist.

            He heard the door open, a ghosting of sound through the dripping, and he picked up his head; swinging the knife into a tighter grip, ready to fight. But he dropped his hand, instead, when the sandy-haired demon strolled in, whistling, hands in his pockets.

            Lusiver stopped in the doorway across from Sam, his face scrunching with disgust. “Oh, _Sam_. Not lookin’ so hot over there, buddy.”

            “Leave me,” Sam enunciated slowly. “ _Alone_.”

            “I get that a lot.” Lusiver dropped into a crouch, crossing his arms on his knees and balancing his weight on his heels. “You know, if you’re not careful, you’ll bleed out from those.” He nodded to Sam’s lesioned arm, and Sam chuckled humorlessly.

            “Right. How _stupid_ do you think I am?” He rolled his eyes shut. “It’s not a bleed-spot. I couldn’t die from it just like you couldn’t _kill_ me, back at the Reactor.”

            “Who says I was trying?” Lusiver let the words hang suspended on the moist, chilly air. “You gotta trust me, Sam. It’s all just…part of the plan.”

            “To turn me into a freak.” Sam said, flatly.

            “Oh, buddy, you’ve been a freak your whole life. No two ways about that.” Lusiver dropped his weight back, settling against the opposite wall. “No, we’ve got bigger plans for you.”

            “Good luck with that.” Sam picked up the plastic gallon, cracked one eye and found himself battling a hot surge of disappointment to find it empty, drained of Masque. He lobbed it into the corner. “How did you find me?”

            “Oh, little birdie told me where you folks were.” Sam could practically hear the demon shrug. “Thought I’d drop by for a visit.”

            Sam’s throat constricted on a swallow. “ _Ruby_.”

            “You have your connections,” Lusiver pursed his lips. “I have mine.”

            “What do you _want_?” Sam rocked his head back and forth against the wall; the bitter taste of the Masque had worn off, ushering in the cold clarity that had melded itself seamlessly to his way of life.

            “Believe it or not, Sam, you and I aren’t so different.” There was a scratching of nails on floorboards. “No, no, no. The pair of us, we’re cut out of the same terrycloth, kiddo. Two of a kind.”

            “I find that hard to believe.”

            “Really?” There was polite disbelief in the rebuff. “You couldn’t imagine yourself torturing somebody? Couldn’t see yourself giving into those—nasty little urges? Hm?” When Sam held his silence Lusiver pressed on. “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. When Dean _really_ gets on your nerves. When John just won’t let well enough alone. You know you’re cut out to take whatever you want.”

            “Shut up,” Sam mumbled.

            “You’re missing the big picture here, Sam. We’re not demons. We’re gods. We’re gods in a world of insects and denying that _birthright_ , it’s almost pathetic.” Lusiver sniffed. “But, hey, I’m just the messenger. You keep being these peoples’ little bitch, and see how far that gets you.”

            “I’m not their _bitch_.”

            “That’s funny, I coulda sworn I saw you kissing ass. Almost getting your head ripped off in Orlando because you played by the referee’s rules.” Lusiver’s tone held a flavor of taunting. “Like it or not, Sam, you bend over and take it like the world’s most whipped little dog. It’s pathetic.”

            “I said, _shut up_!” Sam roared, eyes flipping wide; he catapulted up away from the wall, flipping the knife around and hurling it toward the demon’s head.

            Lusiver caught the blade between two fingers, and they regarded each other in spiteful silence; Sam’s breaths heaved.

            “Like it or not, Sam, you’ve always been somebody’s puppet. Ours, theirs…” He shrugged magnanimously. “What’s the difference?”

            “I’m not doing this for them. I’m doing it because it needs to be done. Somebody’s gotta knock you asshats down a few pegs, might as well be me.”

            “Which is exactly what they want from you. It’s what everyone wants from you. _Everybody_ wants a piece of that special little meat.” Lusiver’s foot tapped a jazzy beat on the rain-swollen floor. “You think playing by their rules will get you anywhere? Fancy digs because of a preacher, food you can’t even taste… _come on, Sam._ You can lie to Dean, lie to that whole clan, but you can’t keep up that peppy face with me, buddy.” Lusiver let the blade swing loose, wagging between his fingertips as he leaned forward. “What do you dream about, Sammy?” His tone, sing-song and melodious, hit like a punch beneath the belt.

            Sam gritted his teeth, lips flaring, sinking back down against the wall. “None of your damn business.”

            “I’m willing to bet it’s not the white-picket life anymore.” Lusiver stabbed the knife into the floor, the blade wobbling lethargically. “Could be you dream about that go-juice in your belly. Makes you extra-strong, extra- _powerful_ , huh?”

            “Ruby again?” Sam asked with a touch of irony.

            “I like to follow up on my cases.”

            Sam rested his wrist on his knee. “If you came out here to screw with me, you wasted a trip.”

            “More here to give you some _friendly_ advice.” Lusiver said. “You saw those faces out there, didn’t you? Like a bunch of silk-wrapped corpses glued to their chairs. Watching the fight just because it’s a tradition. They didn’t care about you, Sam, didn’t care about those boys you were fighting. And around and around the guinea pigs go.”

            Sam didn’t try to choke down his derision toward the onlookers in the arenas. “What’s your point?”

            “You might try giving them something to write home about.”

            “Yeah? Like what?”

            “Oh, you’ll think of something. Creative little psycho like you, shouldn’t be too hard.” He flashed a predator’s smile, needle-sharp and bright. “I’ll see you around, Sam.”

            “Wait!” Sam barked as Lusiver turned toward the door. “That’s it? You just waltz into my house, give me some _advice_ , and run out again?”

            “Oh, I came here for a little more than that.” Lusiver glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing to slits. “But _that_ all comes in good time, Sammy. All in good time.”

            “You know I could kill you.” Sam said, with almost desperate recklessness. “If you know about Masque, you know what it does. And _I_ know you won’t use this stuff.”

            “Who told you that?”

            “Does it matter?”

            Lusiver tapped a finger to his chin. “Demons lie, Sam. You of all—things—should know that.”

            Sam regained his feet, one hand to the wall behind him. “Get out.”

            “That’s the plan.” Lusiver winked, striding for the door. “By the way, demons heal fast. We don’t heal _that_ fast, and you’re still just a fledgling.” He called over his shoulder. “I’d patch up that arm before you bleed out.”

            “Lusiver!” Sam called to his retreating back. “One last thing.” He waited for the demon to stop before adding, with guarded triumph. “You’re wrong. I know they’re using me. Humans. Winchesters. Demons. Referees.” He shrugged. “I just don’t care. The whole world’s gonna burn, one way or another. Our kind stays in power, the humans die off. Humans get back in control, they’ll all kill each other anyway. I don’t really care which side wins, because the truth is, you’re all _pathetic_.”

            “Then why fight for the losing side?”

            “I’m not on their side. Or yours. But you made me your enemy.” Sam said. “And trust me. I’m the last person on planet _earth_ you wanted to screw with. So watch your back. Because the next time I see you, I’m going to tear your heart out.”

            “Hm. Dually noted.”

            And he was gone, the front door sighing shut behind him.

            The logic of Sam’s brain knew that Lusiver might go visit the Winchesters; that he might drop by Bobby’s house for some payback on Lilith’s behalf. But there was a creeping, quiet part of Sam, a part of himself that he would’ve hated, before, that just didn’t find the energy to pick up the phone and call.

            Justifying: they’d be fine. They could handle themselves.

            So he wrapped his discarded shirt around his arm, and made a mental note to ask Jim for bandages.

            And he started training again.

 


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Three: Ava Wilson – Psychics and Psychotics

 

      “So, Bobby dug up some intel on the fights. Looks like they modeled them off of boxing matches from back in the day.” Dean smacked Sam’s arm with the back of his hand. “Hey, that means dad and I can be in your corner. Sounds good, huh?”

            “I knew that already, Dean. I’ve known that for a couple months. And, no. Stay away from the arena.” Sam replied absently, scanning the throng of people squeezing into the narrow tunnel.

            The Chicago arena was outdoors, a converted baseball stadium that could easily seat forty thousand people. Dean was surprised and a little unsettled to find at least half that capacity was filled; and unlike other arenas, there was talk here. Chatter, not just conventional or assumed, but actual lively conversation.

            Beside them, John tugged out his cell phone, the annoying chime of an incoming call half-muffled under the banter of a couple of humans walking through the tunnel behind them. John melded against the wall and Dean and Sam dropped to flank him.

            “It’s Jim.” John flicked the speaker on. “Jim, this is John Winchester.”

            “Good to hear your voice, John.” Even with the speaker on full volume, Jim Murphy’s voice was barely more than a crackling slur.

            “Any idea why Chicago’s the party of the century?” Dean inclined his head over the phone, nearly kissing the mouthpiece to be heard about the clamor. Feet pummeled the bleachers over their heads.

            “Aside from the fact that the arena in Chicago is the most visited on the League circuit to begin with?” Jim’s tone was dry. “I might’ve snagged a few ears in the last couple of weeks. Drummed up some interest in Sam’s story.”

            “So you got this many rich people to drag their lazy asses out of their penthouses here in Chicago?” Dean shifted, folded his arms. “Gotta admit, padre, I’m impressed. For a preacher you sure know how to get some anemic backsides on the move.”

            Jim chuckled. “Not just in Chicago, either. A few of them are from Amsterdam and the less-visited big cities.”

“What kind of stunt did you have to pull to draw them out?” John asked, and he sounded only half-joking.

 “It didn’t take much. A hint here, a little plug for sympathy there. Everybody feels the brunt of a demon’s dismissal, and there are some cities governed by lesser demons that don’t get the time of day when it comes to staging a League fight. So the story of an underdog monster taking on a hoard of demons with nothing but his fists and his family to back him, it creates a certain amount of interest. It’s the story everybody looks for in the books and movies.”  

“Great. I’m really glad to hear I’m the boy king.” Sam cut in. “But can we at least act like professionals, here, and get the job done?”

Dean elbowed him; Sam’s attitude was really starting to get under his skin.

“Jim, why’d you call us?” John asked, ignoring Sam. “It can’t be to brag about the turnout here in Chicago.”

“I wish it was all good news,” Jim said ruefully. “But it’s a warning.”

Dean and John exchanged a loaded glance, and Dean shifted closer to the phone. “We’re listening.”

“The city you’re in belongs to Meg Masters, but it sounds like she divvies the spoils with another demon.”

“What, co-ownership?” John demanded. “Since when do two demons play in the same sandbox?”

“It’s a big city, a lot of ground to cover.” Jim explained. “I haven’t gotten a bead on that second demon, but I’ve got one of my men, Caleb, looking into it. Just keep a low profile, as low as you can.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, like in the Pits. Always gotta keep our heads down.” He slouched against the wall. “Y’know, did it ever occur to any of you that maybe we should make a big deal out of this? Out of what we’re doing?”

“No, actually, it kinda didn’t.” Dean said belligerently, sweeping a jaundiced look onto Sam. “Seeing as how my head’s in Lilith’s vice and you’re monster-against- _demon_ here, Sam, not to mention that whole pissing match we just went through with Gordon, kinda seems like a good idea not to draw attention to ourselves.”

“So, that’s it? You’re the first human Handlers to make it to the Leagues, and you just want to sit on your hands and keep your heads down?” Sam’s tone was wreathed with condescension. “You think maybe, just maybe, blowing this whole thing up in their faces like it’s a big deal might _actually_ be an advantage?”

“Be quiet, both of you.” John butted in. “Sam, I see your point, but this isn’t something we need to discuss with Jim on the phone.”

“Actually,” Jim’s voice crackled over the line. “I have a word to add.”

John’s expression shifted minutely. “Floor’s open, Jim.”

“Sam’s right. There is an advantage to your position, and I admire his audacity. But the fact is, Sam, Lilith won’t really care backwards or forwards if you make a show.  Neither will the rest of these demons. It’s the people you’re out to win. _People_ are really going to be your allies. That’s why you give them something they’ve never seen before.”

“Like an actual good fight.” Sam lifted his eyes to Dean with that foreign, hapless stare that was as remote as a chasm.

“You know what they want, Sam. Now give it to them.” Jim’s voice burbled in the background, speaking to someone else. “I’m afraid I have to go. Duty calls. You boys stay safe out there, and call me when you leave.”

“Thanks, padre. We’ll be in touch.” Dean said, and John snapped the phone shut.

“I’m gonna find us some food. You boys hungry?” John asked as they emerged from the tunnel into bright, cold daylight; Chicago felt the sting of winter even though it was still autumn, and Dean was grateful for his hoodie and jacket squared tight around his body.

“Yeah, thanks.” His teeth still threatened to chatter, and he bared them into silence. “Just get me whatever they got.”

“Nothing for me.” Sam said.

“Watch each other’s backs,” John said, and he sauntered into the grandstands, searching for a vendor.

“This place ain’t half bad.” Dean blew a steamy puff of breath into the air, glancing at Sam sidelong. “You seriously don’t want me in your corner?”

“No offense, Dean, I just don’t think I need you.” Sam was scanning the crowd again, and his mouth tightened. “Demons.”

It took Dean’s brain a second to process through _I don’t think I need you_ , to catch up to what came after that. “Where?”

“Everywhere. Like always.” Sam slung both arms over the green-painted railing that bordered the cement slope of the tunnel, tossing his hair from his eyes. “It never gets old, does it? Being around this many demons.”

“Man, it gives me the creeps. Reminds me of Nashville.”

“Well, tough, Dean. This isn’t the Reactor.”

“ _Thanks_ , geek, I figured that part out for myself.” Dean shot back. “At least I know all that crap happened to us. You still pretend like you never took the nosedive into Lilith’s happy little family.”

A spasm of hurt and rage lanced across Sam’s face. “Just because I’m not wallowing doesn’t mean I don’t feel it, Dean.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re the picture of healthy processing.”

“You’re one to talk.” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What about that grave in Bobby’s backyard? I haven’t seen you go within five yards of that thing since you moved in.”

It was Dean’s turn to feel that blow. “What, you wanna hear about _Chelsea_?”

Sam blew out a ruffled breath. “Honestly? No. I don’t _care_ , Dean. I just want you to admit that you’re being a hypocrite. You’re not the sharing and caring type, so why do I have to be?”

“’Cause that’s who you _are_ , Sam, that’s who you’ve always been!”

Sam straightened, the planes of his face hard with reproach. “You’ve known me for a _year_ , Dean. Don’t tell me what I am.” He glanced toward the baseball field, circled with arching walls of rope at least fifteen stories high. “I should head down there.”

Dean bit off his frustration, his anger, and blinked slowly. “Sam.”

Sam stopped, a few steps down the bleachers, glancing back.

Dean lifted his chin. “Sorry, man, but you’re not gettin’ rid of me that easy. I’m still in your corner.”

Sam flashed a smile that had no depth to it. “I know you are.”

He wove his way into the crowd and vanished. Dean tipped his head back, glancing up at the cloudless sky and remembering, not just Chelsea; Maggie, too. Sam’s disregard bit in deeper and more venomously than anything else rifting between them so far. It felt like an infection brewing in his veins.

“Still trying to figure out who the monster is, Maggie.” He muttered under his breath, searching for a trace of Sam. But every trace was gone.

 

-X-

 

“S’cuse me, I’m trying to find a seat. D’you think you could help me?”

Sam was tucked into the mouth of a deserted entrance tunnel, draining his last flask of Masque, when the woman’s voice sounded off behind him. He turned, cleaning his mouth on his sleeve, trying to hide the vertigo dip to his step as he waited for the initial rapid-fire clog of the drug to move through his veins. He might’ve drank more than he needed for a fight, but he blamed it on Dean; their conversation had left him second-guessing, again, what he was doing. Had left him thinking _maybe there’s a future here, after all_.

Dangerous thinking. The kind that could get him killed, because it was a distraction, and because Dean didn’t know what he was. There’d be no corner left to stand in if he _did_ know, because Dean would tear down the walls of Sam’s dollhouse utopia and leave him exposed.

“I’m kind of in a hurry.” Sam said, trying to step around the girl; she was shorter than him by a foot easily, with long mink-brown hair and wide eyes.

“Right, you’re in so much of a hurry that you had time to stand in a dark tunnel, alone?” There was something mouse-like in her face, pointed nose and full lips, and Sam almost liked the sound of her voice. Softly nasally with a touch of warmth. The voice of a sister, of the good girl down the street.

“How ’bout you mind your own business?” Sam made another attempt to step around her, and she blocked him again. Raking his hands back through hair that was rapidly reaching for his shoulders, Sam stared at her. “Seriously, lady?”

“Yeah. _Seriously_.” She looked him up and down. “Look, my boyfriend’s probably worried about me. I went to get drinks and I got really turned around. Can you just help me find some kind of landmark in here?”

“Sorry, like I said, I’m in a hurry. And this is my first rodeo out here.”

“Then let me come with you!” She shadowed him, again. “Please? It’s really, really not safe out there. A girl could get killed!”

Sam heaved out a sigh. “Fine, whatever. But when I say get lost, _get lost_.”

She followed him back out into sunlight so bright it hurt, and Sam shaded his eyes, sweeping a multicolored quilt of onlookers. “Do you even know where you’re supposed to be sitting?”

“Brady has the tickets.” The girl bit her thumbnail in a way that reminded Sam, unpleasantly, of Andy Gallagher.

“And it never occurred to you to set up a rendezvous point?”

She stared at him. “ _No_ , not really. We’re not military ops or anything, we just wanted a soda.” She sounded on the verge of tears.

Before, Sam thought, before _everything_ , he probably would’ve taken the time to help her find her boyfriend. But with the Masque singing a siren call in his veins, his patience was stretched thin as wax paper.

“Look, there’s probably security around here. Go find one of them and stop wasting my time.” He turned toward the arena.

“Well, aren’t you a hundred kinds of _fun_?” She spat at his back, and Sam stopped. “If you’re half as much of an asshole inside the ring, this oughta be one hellof a fight!”

Sam revolved slowly on the spot to face her, his vertebrae chattering to attention, shoulders hunching slightly. “Demon?”

“ _The_ demon, pal.” She rubbed her temples. “It’s Ava. Ava Wilson. And _you_ must be Sam Winchester. Nice to finally meet you in person. My Handler talks about you a lot. She says you cleaned house down in New Orleans.”

“Right. Meg was there.” Sam recalled. “Too much of a coward to show her face, but we caught a glimpse, anyway.”

“Sticks and stones, Sam.” Ava chided.

“And, what, Meg just lets you run loose around here? She’s not afraid you’ll take off, leave her hanging before a fight?”

“Are you kidding? She gives me the cream of the crop. All the food, drink and sex a girl could ask for, and all I’ve gotta do is pick off a few scrappy monsters every couple of weeks.” She shrugged. “What’s not to love? I mean, who the _hell_ would run away from that?”

“Good question.” Sam said lowly. “So, why were you looking for me?”

“Boss’s orders. Really wanted to get a read on you, see if the stories from Orlando were true. And I gotta say, you’re not exactly as cute, warm and fuzzy as the stories say.”

Sam flipped a humorless grin. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Something tells me I’m gonna find out.” Ava rocked her head back, eyeing him with her mouth slightly open. She nodded, a faint, slow movement. “Huh.”

Sam felt a small pang of warning in his gut. “What?”

“Nothing. This is gonna be a really quick fight.” She scooted past him, moving down the bleachers toward the nets. “Come on, _Sam_! We’re wasting time.”

If it hadn’t been for the calming affect of the Masque, Sam might’ve felt unnerved. Instead he followed her to the high wall that bracketed the side of the field, vaulting over onto the turf. It felt crunchy and unnatural through his boots as he moved to a slit in the net that was almost like a door.

They weren’t alone: greeted by a petite woman with pixie-short blond hair, heavy makeup and just a hint of an accent when she said, “Well, well. Sammy Winchester. Good to _finally_ meet you.”

Sam knew her at a glance from Ava, the reverence hard to ignore. “You must be Meg Masters.”

“The one and only.” She grinned.

“And, let me guess…you came all the way down here just to meet me.” Sam infused the words with as much disdain as he could muster. Between the Masque and a general lack of possibility, Sam had stopped worrying weeks ago about whether he made an enemy of a demon They were all enemies.

“Don’t flatter yourself, baby.” Meg purred. “I came down here to give my girl a little pep talk.” Meg flung an arm over Ava’s shoulders. “Come on, I think we have some things to discuss.”

So, Meg was thoroughly in Ava’s corner; Sam supposed even demons could root for one another, the way Handlers rooted for their monsters. He searched the grandstands automatically for Dean, turning up nothing and finding himself neither disappointed nor relieved. It was what it was.

Meg and Ava were back in seconds, Meg removing her arm from Ava’s shoulders and giving her a small push toward Sam. Sam caught Ava’s arm and bolstered her away from him, his thumb pressing briefly over the black stains on the inside of her elbow.

“Hope you don’t take it personally when I rip your little bitch apart,” Sam called to Meg. A dusky glow of hatred fired through her irises and she closed the distance between them with surprising speed, snagging Sam’s chin.

“You’re in _my_ city now, big boy,” She murmured. “I’ve got some insurance of my own. And believe me, it’ll only get worse the longer you stick around.” She rapped his cheek with the back of her free hand, then released him and strode for the steps leading upwards, off the field.

“What the hell d’you mean, _insurance_?” Sam could feel the grooves where her nails had dug into his skin, but not the sting. He counted that a blessing, and a good sign; it meant the Masque was doing its job.

“You’ll see,” Meg shot back, and Sam tempered down any fear that wanted to take its first shallow breath. He held up the flap of the net’s door and Ava ducked through ahead of him into the arena.

The first surprise Sam felt in days was when the crowd started cheering; Jim Murphy’s loyalists, mostly, and a handful of others. Maybe a hundred total, and it seemed vast and alone in the grandstands. But it was like a Pit, it was like being in control again. The way Masque made him; the thing Ruby had tried to strip away.

And if he was a demon, Sam figured, he should make the most of it; give in and give over, and let the people have what they wanted.

Winding his feet into the gaps of the net, Sam hoisted himself up, arms spread wide, embracing their cheering; and they cheered louder. Not just humans, Sam could feel it. The vitriol glee of the demons reached out for him, welcoming him as one of their own. Sam swept the crowd with a grim smile, and that was when his eyes found Dean.

Not laughing; not even smiling. Dean was sitting closer than Sam had expected, arms folded, eyes colorless as pond scum insteadof their usual vibrant green. He watched Sam with so much disappointment that Sam felt it touch him, too, bile-bitter and chilly, and heavy with sadness.

Sam’s top lip curled and he gave Dean an offhanded sideways salute before dropping onto the turf, bending his knees to absorb the impact.

“They must really like _you_ ,” Ava said, with just a hint of jealousy. The goddess of consumption, the sex fiend of Chicago, out-cheered by the fans of the underdog from the Prelims, who’d bought his way in on sweat and blood rather than inheriting it by the rank of his Handlers.

“What can I say? I’m a people person.” Sam planted his feet and spread his arms wide again. “Let’s get started.”

Ava massaged her temples again, her nose scrunching. “It’ll be a short fight, Sam, like I said.”

Sam loosened his stance slightly, revelation dawning. “You can see that?”

“ _Yep_.” Ava said with a flourish. “Mm-hmm, you’re gonna throw a few punches, make a catch-phrase, I’ll knock you on your ass. We’ll wrestle, skip to the second round, pummel our way through that, but in the end I land a good one to your spleen, bust you open, and…” She sucked in air through gritted teeth, her expression mockingly sheepish. “Game over for you, Sam.”

“Funny coincidence. I can see the future, too.” Sam circled her carefully; the chatter in the grandstands died to a whisper. “Not as far as you. But far enough.”

“Is that so?”

“One thing I’ve learned? People and monsters are predictable.” Sam stepped up behind her, his chin almost on her shoulder. “But not us.”

He hooked an arm around her waist and flipped her; on a tide of cheers from people who were beginning to expect this kind of show, Sam’s third League fight was under way.

 

-X-

 

Sam and Ava were feinting blows through their first match when Dean realized something was wrong.

Not in the ring; not even with Sam’s macho showdown display, which had left Dean rolling his eyes and tasting copper because _that_ , that wasn’t Sam, not by a long shot. No, Sam was holding his own so far, against a demon a lot smaller and lighter than he was. But there was a sense of _wrongness_ that brought Dean to his feet, sweeping his surroundings and checking his watch. And finally realizing just how much time had elapsed since John had left.

“Oh, that can’t be good.” With one last glance into the field, Dean started to retrace his steps, calling for John until he realized at least a quarter of the people here would probably respond to _Dad_. After that he was left to rely on his eyes and instincts, and both were clouded, mostly by the thought of Sam’s shift in personality.

It wasn’t until Dean detoured toward the bathrooms, just to give himself peace and quiet to _think_ , that he caught a break.

A steady pool of water was trickling under the swinging door to the men’s lavatory, and that was Dean’s first clue that something was lurking just out of eyeshot. Tucked into the far end of one of the various and sundry tunnels, the bathroom was far enough out of the way that nobody noticed Dean drawing the knife from the waistband of his jeans as he let himself inside.

All of the sinks along the left-hand wall were turned on to their fullest and plugged up, water spilling from the porcelain basins. Dean cranked them off, one after the other, keeping a vigilant eye on the stalls; and hearing, in absence of the rushing waterfall of sound, a low moan.

Dean started kicking, moving down the row of stalls, busting every lock in a frantic search for his father—and finding him, in the last stall, sprawled on the floor with his back to the wall.

A myriad of cuts and scrapes marred John’s face, and his forehead was burping a sluggish trickle of blood. Dean cussed and dropped to a knee beside him, searching for a pulse; relieved to find it, strong and beating free, against his fingertips.

“Thank God.” Dean hung his head for a second, and John shifted beside him.

“Dean?”

“Man, that soda musta put up a hell of a fight,” Dean joked, but his breathlessly happy tone nullified the joke. “What _happened_ , dad?”

“Demons happened.” John rubbed the side of his neck, pulling his hand away sticky red and studying it with almost surprised stillness. Dean leaned around him, searching for the injury and coming up with a shallow but wide laceration. “Jumped me when I came in here to take a leak.”

“Just like that? No warning?”

“None. Didn’t even hear ’em come in.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean said, softy. “They’re upping their game.”

“You think?” There was a mild bite of sarcasm to the rejoinder and John leaned his head back against the wall. “Yeah, they’re pissed, all right. Scared, too. And they want Sam distracted.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not gonna happen.” Dean grabbed John’s arm, hefted it across his shoulders and dragged them both to their feet; steadying John, when he swayed, with a hand on his chest. “You okay?”

“I’ll live.” John curled an arm around his ribs and let his head hang, and it was enough to clue Dean in on a multitude of hurts he _couldn’t_ see.

“How bad?” He asked, and when John hesitated: “ _Dad_! How bad? Rate it.”

“Eight.”

Eight out of ten. Dean blew out a breath. “You’re a real stoic hard-ass, y’know that?” He shouldered the stall open and stepped out with John limping, trudging beside him—then stopped on the far side.

Meg’s sidekicks were hard to miss; there were only three of them, almost-even odds, but they filled the bathroom with broad shoulders and crisp suits.

“Aw, crap.” Dean let John’s arm slide loose, leaned his father against the wall. “This is gonna really ruin my whole day.”

“Don’t even think about it, Dean.” John chastised firmly.

“Our employer sent us to deliver a message,” One of the demons began, but he didn’t get any farther than that when Dean creamed him across the face with a plunger. The demon reeled, hitting the edge of the sink hard, and Dean held the suctioned tool like a warrior’s sword.

“That’s my counter-offer.” Dean spat. “Suck old ass-chunks and die, ugly.”

The other two demons surged forward in movements that promised Dean’s pain would far outweigh John’s. Dean planted his feet and swung broadly, clipping the first demon in the head but losing the plunger to the second, who snapped it over his knee. Skipping back out of reach, Dean leaped, hooked his arms over the top of the stall and pummeled the demon’s chest with series of hard kicks that winded it.

But not for long; Dean hadn’t gone toe-to-toe with demons since the Reactor, had forgotten how quick they were in a fight. This one snagged his ankle, ripped him down and around, hurling him like a human Frisbee across the narrow aisle. Dean’s back struck the edge of the nearest sink, cutting the breath out of him, and he dropped into a puddle with one outstretched arm supporting his head, wheezing for breath.

John exploded from a standstill to a whirlwind, a tornado dropping down from a blue sky. He clinched the first demon into a headlock, spinning it around so its flailing arms struck the second in the face. He kicked his prisoner to its knees and popped its neck, paralyzing it; then went for the next one.

Dean dragged himself up to his elbows and knees, saw through a still-swimming haze of pain that the other mobile demon was surging toward him, splashing through the flood on the floor. Hair dripping on one side, world-view tipped on its axis, Dean braced a hand on the sink and gained his feet just in time to have his head grabbed and smashed into on of the mirrors.

The jolt of pain refocused his senses. Dean gripped both sides of the sink and drove his heel into the demon’s groin, flipped out of its grip and turned in the narrow space between its body and the sink. He slammed the heel of his hand into the demon’s nose, wishing they had the Colt to even the odds; and then finding, when he hooked the demon down and slammed it by its throat to the floor, rendering it unconscious, that they didn’t need the odds evened out.

John was standing with two crumpled bodies at his feet; his chest rose and fell with serrated, labored breathing, and he looked more numb than triumphant.

And then his knees buckled.

“Whoa, whoa, steady.” Dean was beside him in an instant, grabbing John’s arm and hauling it over his shoulders again. “Dude, you must eat a helluva lot of Wheaties in the morning, to be this on-top of your game.”

“What the hell has gotten into you? Rushing _demons_?” John demanded.

“What, you expected me to just lie down and take it?” Dean guided them around the bodies of the demons, toward the door. “Besides, you were right; these sons of bitches want to use us as leverage against Sam, and that’s not in the cards.”

He shoved the swinging door open and they stepped out, pausing to adjust to the luminescent glare of the sun. John disentangled his arm from Dean’s hold, stepping back on his own feet.

“I’ll be fine,” He said, and he sounded stronger, like the attack had given him a second wind. Dean wasn’t about to argue.

“Then let’s get back out there and pick up our pom-poms.”

They made it out to the bleachers when the screaming started; deliberate, high and sharp as a razorblade. Whistling with the squeeze of air from the lungs; somebody screaming with everything in them, from their bowels, like soured belly-laughter. Dean laid a hand on John’s chest, sweeping the crowd for a source; and realizing every eye was pinned on the fight.

His head swiveled, and Dean felt a stark swoop of nausea.

They were close enough to see Sam and the demon he was fighting; close enough to see that he had her pinned, one knee in her back, the other aligned to her hip. He was holding her arms pinned above and behind her, both of her tiny wrists engulfed in his huge hand.

Pulling. Slowly. Against the rotation of her shoulders. The reason for that feral scream that was more like a cat being ground into the dirt than a humanoid in pain.

Dean took a slow, halting step down the bleachers, saw Sam lean over the girl and whisper in her ear; and just like that, she stopped screaming. She lanced a look over her shoulder that was pure spite, pure, undiluted hatred, and Dean felt a shock of protectiveness toward Sam, something ingrained and undeniable that made him want to step between his brother and this girl.

And Sam wrenched back, ripping the demon’s shoulders cleanly from their sockets; a dislocation so gruesome that the cracking of it could be heard like a gunshot through the suddenly dead-silent arena.

At first, nothing

And then the demon was throwing up, heaving blood and bile and chunks onto the grass, and Sam rose to his feet with his face a rictus of disgust. Watching as his opponent, with boneless arms that couldn’t support her weight, lay in a puddle of her own sickness, utterly powerless to stop the wracking heaves; but aside from that, making no sound at all. No more screaming. Nothing. Just the spray of wetness on the grass.

That lasted for a frozen minute of no-speaking, no-thinking, no-breathing.

            And then they were _cheering._

            Not the humans, Dean didn’t think, but the demons; screaming Sam’s name like a praise for salvation. Sam stood his ground over his defeated enemy, basking in the glow of the demons’ praise, and Dean felt an anger so profound it left him choking just to breathe, his eyes narrowed to slits.

            When the girl started screaming again, it sounded different, this time; intermittent with sobs, and she curled around her ruined arms, every motion jarring what had to be the worst injury she’d ever sustained. Sam left her lying there, ducking under the net and vanishing only to reappear on the stairs below John and Dean seconds later, jogging up to their level.

            “Hey,” He said, casually, and his eyes picked out Dean’s scrapes and bruises. “What happened to you?”

            “Got jumped by demons.” Dean bit the words off, staring unblinking at Sam.

            “Okay, uh,” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Are you…okay?”

            “I’ll live.”

            “Good.” Sam nodded once, brusquely. “Look, I’m gonna grab some food. You want anything?”

            “I’m good. Thanks.” Dean felt his temper trembling itself loose of his control. Sam shrugged, then stepped into the crowd and let himself be swept off by it. Dean turned slowly on the spot to face John, catching his eyes, pierced through with remorse, and the low, keening cries of the demon in the arena, with nobody—not even her Handler—to come to her aid.

            Dean laid his fist into he cement wall of the tunnel.

 

-X-

 

            “Hold still, honey, I’m almost done.”

            They were sitting at Bobby’s table; Bobby reclining at the head, John straddling a backwards chair opposite, Dean slumped with his arm extended on the table and Mary across from him, sewing shut the jagged fissure on her son’s knuckles.

            Mary was worn thin of seeing her family injured, and she’d seen less to mend since Sam and Dean had stopped training together. But the wounds she saw now went deeper than antiseptic and a bandage could ever hold a candle to. In the hard brackets carving lines around Dean’s mouth, in the restrained horror of John’s gaze, there was a story to be told in words Mary didn’t know.

            Her hatred of the fights was very close to the surface, these days; always eager to make itself known.

            They’d dropped Sam on Main Street coming into town, or so John had said; when Mary had asked if Sam had any wounds that needed to be treated, Dean’s belligerent, “Nothing we can _see_ ,” had left her wondering exactly what had happened in Chicago.

            Finishing the row of stitches, Mary wound a circle of gauze along Dean’s knuckles, then dropped a kiss on the scratchy white fabric. “All better.”

            Usually that would elicit some dry humor from Dean, or at least a smile. But he took his hand back without a break through the clouds of his stormy expression, and a curt, “Thanks, ma.”

            “Anytime, sweetie,” Mary started to repack the first-aid kit. “When are we going to talk about what happened?”

            Dean’s expression went, if at all possible, even darker, turning his eyes from seafoam to white-capped riptide. He snatched his jacket off the back of the chair and got to his feet. “I’m goin’ out.”

            Bobby rose beside him. “Where to?”

            “To see Sam.” Dean’s steely tone implied it wasn’t a social call, and Mary saw John’s eyes flutter shut, his chin descending to his arms, crossed on the back of the chair.

            “I’ll tag along.” Bobby said. “Make sure you idjits don’t pussy-foot around this whole damn mess.”

            “I don’t need a babysitter.” Dean shot back.

            “Maybe not. But give an old man some credit and a chance outta the house every once in a while.” Bobby swatted the back of Dean’s head. “Now get steppin’, kid.”

            When the back door swung shut, Mary turned to John. “What the hell is going _on_ here, John?”

            “Sam’s a—” John began, and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. “He’s different, Mare. Changed. Everything I was afraid of when we took that boy on, it’s happening. He’s turned into something else.”

            Mary’s logical mind cycled through possibilities. “You mean a dual-personality?”

            “It’s not dual, it’s constant. Something turned him.”

            “You mean, a monster.”

            “I mean his own _soul_ , Mare.” John’s eyes slid open and settled on her. “It’s like he’s got this evil inside of him that we can’t fix. He’s shuttin’ us out at every turn, even Dean. You wouldn’t think they ever cared a shake about each other, the way Sam’s actin’. He didn’t even care Dean was banged up, just went to buy himself some Nachos.”

            Mary frowned. “That’s not like him.”

            “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

            “John, don’t take my head off.” Mary said evenly, and John’s eyes fell shut again.

            “I’m a bastard and I know it,” He sighed.

            “An ass from every angle.” Mary leaned forward and rested her hand on his arm, her thumb stroking the sinews beneath his skin. “It could be something else, John. Drugs can cause moodswings, changes in personality. There might be a chemical imbalance in his brain, something we can get help for—”

            “He ripped a girl’s arms out of their sockets, Mary.” John said shallowly, and Mary tasted a brief but overwhelming surge of bile. “I don’t think I’ll ever…” He trailed off. “Worst part was, I think he enjoyed it.”

            _Bats in the belfry_. Her mother’s old term for insanity came rushing back, and Mary felt acute unease at the thought of Bobby and Dean going to face Sam. “What are you going to do, John?”

            “I should put him down.” John said quietly. “I know I should. But I can’t do that, Mare. I’m breakin’ my word, I promised you and I promised Sam that I’d never let it get this far. But if there’s a chance we can bring him back from the edge—”

            “I know.” Mary leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. “I love that boy like a son, John. _I know_.”

            She didn’t need to explain what she knew; it drifted, understood and unspoken, between them.

            John slid a hand around to the back of her neck, holding her head to his; then tilting back, bringing his mouth to hers. He kissed her, first softly, then with a kind of urgency Mary hadn’t felt from him, from anyone, in years. He worked his other hand loose and brought it to her face, his thumb exploring the rounded smoothness of her cheekbone, until they both realized they couldn’t breathe.

            They pulled back, hunting each other’s eyes, all of the hurts and thoughts and tragedies warping the atmosphere between them.

            John kicked the chair aside on his way to his feet, pushing Mary hard against the table, his mouth crashing back to hers; Mary met him with equal enthusiasm, one hand tangling in his hair, the other bracing her body against the table’s edge, to keep her from falling. When John’s arm snaked around her back, safety and protection in a single touch, Mary gripped his salted dark curls in both hands and pressed herself to him, feeling every inch of him against her with a tingling sense of rediscovery.

            When they broke apart, this time, they were both unkempt, breathless, and wanting, more than they could say.

            But John asked, with the gentleman’s restraint that Mary had fallen in love with, “You sure about this?”

            “As sure as I was the day I married you.”

            John flicked a grin that was almost wild with need, sweeping the first-aid kit to the floor and backing her up onto the table.

            They made love in an empty kitchen, and then in the bed, despite every half-hearted protest Bobby had ever made to the contrary; it was a distraction, and passion, and the words of love and trust that they’d left buried for nearly fourteen years. And after, lying tangled in the sheets and the splay of each other’s limbs, Mary realized that _this_ was what she’d searched desperately for, in the arms of different suitors, while she and John had been apart. Something no one could fulfill, because nobody else was _her John_.

            She rested her chin on his scarred chest, listening to his heartbeat. And finding it came so easy to say, “I love you, John.”

            His staccato breathing ruffled her hair as he tipped his head down, and she could imagine his eyes were closed. “Ditto, Mare.”

            She laughed, scrunching her toes against his leg, and pressed herself more firmly against him. “I hope the boys are all right.”

            “Bobby’s a true-blue mediator. He’ll set them straight.”

            “I didn’t mean tonight, John. I meant…from now on. I hope this talk can mend things. Set Sam back on the straight and narrow.”

            John rolled over her, peering down into her eyes. “Whatever happens, you know I won’t hurt him, Mare.”

            She smoothed a hand over his stubbly jaw, then laced her fingers in the sweaty hair beside his temple. “I know.”

            John sank back down beside her, melding his body against hers, every inch the same between them. Mary retreated into the sanctuary of John’s arms, strong and secure around her, and decided that morning, with all of its intricate problems, could wait.

            Tonight was theirs.

           

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter Thirty-Four: Lily Baker - Puppet on a Toxic String

 

            They drove to Sam’s house, and Dean knew it was Sam’s house because it was the only one with a light on inside. For someone so desperate to cover his tracks, it was a rookie mistake, and one Dean intended to take advantage of.

            Except he didn’t; he killed the engine and sat outside the two-story gothic establishment, staring up at it with his arms draped over the steering wheel, Bobby silent except for occasionally shifting in the passenger’s seat.

            And finally, Bobby scoffed. “You waitin’ for the second coming of Christ, boy? That’s your friend in there, hell, he’s your _brother_. Get it in gear.”

            “Get off my back, Bobby.”

            “Don’t be a sensitive little princess.” Bobby smacked the back of Dean’s head, jolting him down against the steering wheel. “Either you go in there and give that boy a piece of your mind, or so help me, _I will_.”

            “All right, all right, fine!” Dean snapped. “I’m just…” He slouched down in the seat. “Trying to figure out what I’m gonna say.”

            “You ever think of levelin’ with him? Bein’ honest?”

            “We’re _men_ , Bobby, we don’t just lay our feelings out on the table.”

            “Bullcrap! The two of you used to dish gossip like a couple old ladies!”

            “It’s called _sharing information_. _There’s a difference_.”

            “And _this_ is what we call _stalling_ ,” Bobby replied matter-of-factly, reaching around Dean and popping the door. “You got ten seconds.”

            “Geeze, _Grandma_ , all right!” Dean hopped out, slammed the door, then leaned his crossed arms on the windowsill. “If I’m not out in fifteen, assume we’re killing each other.”

            Bobby snorted. “Yeah, _that’ll_ be the day.”

            “Seriously, Bobby. You mind stayin’ put?” Dean avoided Bobby’s eyes. “I gotta handle this one on my own.”

            Bobby sank down in the seat, tucking his trucker’s cap low on his brow. “You know where I’ll be if the walls start comin’ down.”

            And even though he’d complained about it the whole ride over, Dean felt a warm wash of gratitude for Bobby’s presence. “Yeah, stinkin’ up my truck,” He said cheekily, shutting the door on Bobby’s protest.

            The moon was a bright silver nickel on a canvas of black, shedding luminescent light as Dean took the wide stone steps to the front door two at a time. The house had a jutting, rounded turret, embossed doors and heavy drapes over the windows; like something pulled from another century, it stood in silent vigilance, waiting to welcome him in. Rather than knocking, Dean tested the knob; finding it unlocked, he let himself in.

            There was an eerie silence to the place; no fans rushing like in Bobby’s house. The lights overhead, without the shells of encasing fixtures, sparked and guttered. There was a staircase up and to his left that Dean ignored for the doorway ahead of him; the sound of puffing, hard exhalations beckoned him in.

            Sam’s back was to Dean, and he was doing pushups shirtless in the middle of an empty room that smelled strongly of mold. He seemed so utterly absorbed, Dean just waited, watching him; trying to find the lanky shadow that had followed him for eight months, inside the hard casing of muscles and independence.

It was impossible; everything was different, even Sam’s hair. Like a different person had moved in after Nashville.

Sam finally dropped, first to his chest, then straightening to rest on his knees. He didn’t turn.

Dean cleared his throat.

No response.

Cramming his hands into his pockets, Dean swept a glance over the ceiling. “So, what, we’re not talking?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Sam pushed himself to his feet and grabbed a musty t-shirt off the floor, mopping the back of his neck. “How did you find me?”

“It’s a small town, Sam. Gets a lot smaller when the population’s down to five. And you suck at staying under the radar.” Dean snorted, shrugging off the doorpost and stepping into the room, surveying the gutted, scummy walls and furrowed ceiling. “Nice digs. You sure know how to pick ’em.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Sam said.

“Man, were you really that desperate to get away from us, that you’d just slum around in the first house you could find?”

Sam held his silence, watching Dean with tipped eyes, and Dean felt a crushing weight descend on his chest.

“We need to talk,” He said around the formidable lump in his throat.

“So, talk.” Sam wadded up the t-shirt and lobbed it into the corner. “I’m all ears.”

“Yeah, find that hard to believe.” Dean muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, Sam, whatever you’re doing, it’s gotta stop.”

“What?” Sam cocked his head. “You mean _winning_?”

“I mean whatever psycho acid-trip turned you into— _this_.” He indicated Sam’s body with a sweep of his hand. “All of this. This ends, Sam, right now.”

“Quit trying to be the boss of me, Dean.” Sam crossed his arms and leaned against the protruding windowsill behind him. “Besides, since when do you have a problem with killing demons?”

“Killing them is one thing. Ripping a girl’s _arms_ out of their sockets, that crosses a line, Sam! C’mon, man, are you blind?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Sam’s tone never changed inflection, almost chillingly calm. “We agreed to throw out the rule book on this one, Dean. I know that bothers you, that I’m thinking for myself. But sooner or later, you had to know things would change. Things always do.”

“What about Pastor Jim’s friends bein’ in those grandstands, huh? What, you wanna lose his support?”

“I haven’t heard anything so far. He doesn’t care, Dean, you’re the _only_ one who does. Trust me, this is gonna work out.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Dean said, sharp and quiet.

“Yes, I do, Dean, it’s all part of the plan.”

“Then that’s a lot friggin’ worse! Since when does torturing someone fit into a _plan_? You know dad’s rule: you gank a monster, you don’t make it suffer first. If we get down on their level, we’re no better than them!”

“John was a Hunter, he had the luxury of saying that. He wasn’t in my position, and his _rules_ don’t apply!” For the first time, Sam was raising his voice. Rising to Dean’s level. And Dean felt the overwhelming urge to shove him down.

“Then what’s next, huh? What, are you gonna torture some Handlers to find out what Lusiver’s arena is like? Go after Lilith with a paperclip and find eighteen ways to kill her?”

“I’ll do whatever I have to.”

            “Oh, that’s comforting.” Dean’s voice wavered slightly and he turned his back on Sam, mashing a hand over his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut tight. “Sam, I am begging you, man. Don’t do this.”

            Sam’s voice was much softer when he said, “It’s too late, Dean. You can’t stop it. I’m doing what needs to be done…what you and everyone else _can’t_ do.”

            Dean dropped his hand, let his eyes slide open, fixed on the wall. “What’s that?”

            “Stopping Lilith. Beating her at her own game. I’m doing it _my_ way, Dean, and it’s actually _working_. We have... _everything_ we wanted. Sponsors, leverage against the _demons_. Why can’t you just be grateful, and let things play out?”

            Dean cocked a glance over his shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re losing.”

            Sam returned the stare, saying nothing, and Dean blew out a breath.

            “Fine, y’know what? This is a waste of my time.” He strode for the door.

            “You’re too late, anyway.” Sam’s brittle, icy voice stopped Dean in his tracks. He hooked one foot and half-turned, wide eyes finding Sam’s face; finding it utterly emotionless except for an indulgent, feral smile tipping the very corners of his lips.

            “What are you talking about?”

            “The Sammy you knew and loved? He’s long gone, Dean.” Sam spread his arms slightly. “You’re stuck with me. New Sam. All fun and no games.”

            “You son of a bitch.” Dean said, softly. “What the hell happened to you?”

            “Simple.” Sam spread his stance slightly. “I got away from _you_.”

            And the tension that had been mounting for months came to a sudden head, and erupted in the space of a second.

            Dean came at Sam with a sucker-punch aimed for the face, and Sam deflected it easily, slewing behind Dean and hooking his ankle. Dean hopped to keep his balance, aiming a roundhouse kick to sweep Sam at the knees; interrupted painfully when Sam gripped him by the calf and thrust him back against the wall.

            Dean hit, spine, shoulders, tailbone, popping black spots into his eyes. He rolled onto his side, shaking it off, throwing up an arm to block as Sam skidded to a knee beside him, fisting a hand in Dean’s jacket and leveling a punch for his head. The blow glanced off Dean’s wrist, cracking like wildfire into his veins. He twisted free of Sam’s hold and flung himself onto Sam’s chest, rolling them both across the floor.

            It wasn’t like sparring; it wasn’t like the times when they’d tussled for control, to teach Sam the better moves, to save his life. It was full-on Winchester warfare, no holds barred, no punches pulled. Giving as good as they got, opening sieves of blood and blooming bruises on each other’s flesh, and there were no words spoken. The chasm had yawned too wide, filled in with fetid silences and spiteful glances.

            If anything, they spoke fury and hatred.

            When Dean finally pried himself free and hopped to his feet, Sam lurched up behind him and backed him into the turret, Dean folding his arms up to protect his middle, one second too slow. Sam’s punch thundered in his gut and Dean doubled over, gagging up bile. Sam grabbed the back of Dean’s shirt, rammed a knee into his stomach, and pummeled his ribs. When Dean sucked in air, it was just enough to clamp his teeth down on Sam’s arm; Sam didn’t seem to feel it, but Dean’s defensiveness made him hesitate, and Dean ripped free again and scrambled out of the dead-man’s cove of the turret, barely escaping Sam’s next punch. The window blew out from the force of the blow against its gritty pane, driving shards of glass into Sam’s knuckles, but he just shook the blood away and turned, the wind whipping the drapes against his back.

Dean faced Sam with fists up, and Sam prowled the mouth of the turret across from him, eyes slits of pure rage, hair tugged across his face.

            “I was pathetic. I never even saw how much you were holding me back.” He swiped a punch toward Dean’s head and Dean blocked it easily, countering with a right hook that Sam caught in the palm of his hand.

            “I was trying to keep you alive!”

            “ _You were trying to control me_!” Sam shoved Dean back a step. “You didn’t give a damn _about_ me, you were just trying to prove a point!”

            “That’s _bullshit_ and you know it!” Dean paced, too, matching Sam step for step, jabbing a finger at him. “Looking out for you was the only damn thing in this world I had left, and you _screwed_ it up!”

            “Oh, right, _blame me_.” Sam spat. “You tossed me into the fire and had the nerve to _pretend_ we were _brothers_. You _let_ Lilith take me back to that hellhole for _months_ , and you didn’t come looking. Just like you didn’t come looking for me when I moved out.”

            “What are you, a twelve-year-old girl? I’m not chasing you, Sam, we’re supposed to be in this thing together.”

            “In case you hadn’t noticed,” Sam went still, a bloodhound catching a scent. “We’re not family anymore.”

            He made it a single threatening step in Dean’s direction before brawny arms hooked over and under his armpits from behind, wrenching him off balance. Dean stared in wide-eyed shock as Bobby threw Sam on his ass on the floor and towered over him, a brick wall of more fury than Sam and Dean had combined.

            “ _That’s enough! The both of you_!” Bobby thundered.

            “You hear what he said?” Dean demanded.

            “I heard.” Bobby snapped a hand out toward him. “Walk it off, Dean.”

            “Oh, c’mon, I—!”

            “I said, _walk it off_!” Bobby’s voice boomed loud enough to rattle the windows, and Dean backed away, his pulse humming in his fingertips. He swiped a trickle of blood from the bridge of his nose, staring at Sam.

            “Go ahead.” Sam taunted. “Follow orders. Play the game, Dean, it’s what you’re best at, right?”

            “Oh, you bastard—” Dean stormed toward him and Bobby snared the back of his shirt, spinning him toward the door.

            “Did I stutter? Get the hell out, Dean! And you,” He rounded on Sam. “You’d better get a grip on that tongue before I lance it straight out of your skull.”

            “Don’t tell me what to do.”

            “Then start using the brain God gave a piss-ant, sack up, and act like a man!”

            “I’m not human, Bobby!” Sam snarled. “I’m a monster, and what the hell’s the _point_ of pretending I’m something I’m not? I’m sick and tired of lying!”

            “I don’t have to hear this.” Dean stalked toward the door, ignoring the jolt of pain that fired through his ribs with every step.

            “Yeah, that’s right Dean, _walk out_!” Sam called after him. “And don’t bother coming back.”

            The hurt that tumbled over him leeched all the fire from his anger. Dean looked back, in the doorway, at Bobby and at Sam; Sam, sprawled with his weight back on his hands, breathing hard. The _Winchester_ brand was a stark scar on his arm, and Dean’s memory was fresh of having pinned Sam to his chest while they’d seared him with that mark, binding him to their family.

            “Guess it didn’t mean much.” Dean muttered, and he let himself out.

            He left the keys in the ignition for Bobby, and walked himself home.

 

-X-

 

            John didn’t see Sam again.

            He was in high spirits—the best he could remember being in years—after his night alone with Mary. But when Dean came in limping after sunrise, guarding his ribs with one arm and breathing awkwardly, John’s good mood evaporated like water on sizzling rock. He kept himself in check, waiting for Dean to say something first, but Dean just showered and went to bed.

            And stayed there, for two days.

            And Sam never came around.

            John wheedled the story out of Bobby, the third party privy to what had happened, the second day that he knocked on the bedroom door and Dean told him to piss off: a massive, blowout fight had taken place. Both boys had been injured, but Dean was worse for the wear. Bobby had separated them and tried to reason with Sam, but in the end Sam had evicted Bobby from his house on a threat, and that was the end of it.

            There was a hollowness to Dean’s face that John had never seen before, when he finally wandered downstairs. A gray cast like death underneath living skin. It was forlornness, a loss of purpose; it was having something you cared for and believed in stripped from under you, with no warning.

            John couldn’t bring himself to rediscover the happiness he’d felt in the afterglow, and neither could Mary. They discussed it, over the dim kitchen light after Bobby and Dean had both gone to bed.

            “He needs us, John.” Mary whispered. “Together, unified, or separate. He just needs us to support him.”

            John didn’t know how. Didn’t know how to relate to a Dean that wasn’t cantankerous or cocky but just quiet. He spoke in monosyllabic answers and then, only when prompted; ate, but didn’t seem interested in that, even. Whatever Sam had done, it hadn’t just left bruises on Dean’s body; it had scarred something inside of him.

            The fight in Seattle was two weeks away.

            John ruminated, waiting for an opportunity that never presented itself; until, finally, one morning over breakfast, he bit lead and broached the subject: “What are Sam’s plans for Seattle?”

            Mary stopped with a bite halfway to her mouth. Bobby, who was washing dishes at the sink, went unusually still. And Dean didn’t do anything; kept chasing cut-up sausage around his plate.

            “Beats me. Go ask him.”

            “I’m asking _you_.”

            “Well, I don’t have the foggiest _clue_ what Sam’s got in mind. Kid can go screw himself, ain’t any skin off my back.” Dean kicked onto his feet, taking his plate to the sink and depositing it into the soapy basin.

            “ _Gee, thanks_.” Bobby snarked.

            “Dean, you can’t walk away from this.” John rose and followed Dean into the study. “Dean, dammit, talk to me!” John snagged Dean’s elbow and Dean ripped free, turning on him with a week and a half of pent-up rage gushing from livid eyes and a sharp tongue.

            “You’re a damn hypocrite, you know that? You’re holding the _corner_ on walking away from stuff that meant something!”

            “The hell are you talking about?” John snapped.

            “I’m talking about mom! I’m talking about _me_!” Dean spread his arms. “We were right _there_ , dad. Holy crap, we _needed_ you, man! And you just ditched us to go live this craphole life. Well, y’know what? This sucks out loud! What the hell was so special about all this, that you didn’t even come looking for us?”

            John felt like he’d been struck broadside. “I _did_ look for you. I searched for months! You and your mother were long gone and Mary didn’t want to be found.”

            “Don’t put this on her, dammit! I know you, you coulda found us if you’d looked hard enough. But you were so freakin’ wrapped tight in the fights, we didn’t matter enough for you to try! Right? I was just twelve wasted years and half a hunter and you didn’t give a shit what happened to me after I walked out that door!”

            John stared at him, at the collision of anger and pain in his son’s face, sloughing off the years while it deepened the shadows of his cheeks. “Dean…”

            “No, I get it.” Dean cut him off savagely. “ _You_ left. The Harvelles, y’know, Jo and Ellen and Bill, they left. Now Sam’s gone, and I can’t—” He cut off, looking away, his tongue sliding between pursed lips.

            Silence dominated, and John could hear the hammer of his own swishing pulse.

            “But that’s fine. I get it. I’ll tough it out, that’s how Winchesters do it, right?”

            “Grow up.” John said, and Dean fixed a wide-eyed stare on him.

            “Come again?”

            “I said, _grow up_.” John spat. “You can’t take this out on me like a child throwing a tantrum. We’ve got our problems, Dean, you and me. God knows we do. But I won’t take the brunt of your failure with Sam. I’ll help you carry that load, but I _will not_ shoulder the blame for it. We’re all responsible in our own right, and that includes you. That includes me _and_ your mother. We all dropped the ball somewhere along the line. He was your responsibility first and foremost, and I know how you must be feeling right now. But that is _not_ on me. That is _not_ my fault.”

            “Go to hell.” Dean’s eyes pinned John with blazing fury.

            And John punched Dean in the jaw.

            The blow wasn’t hard enough to budge Dean even a step; but the shock in his eyes was like an awakening. In nearly twenty-six years, John had never raised a hand to Dean outside of training. Had never really threatened it outside of idle banter and fatherly taunts that fell by the wayside.

            They could hear the soap frothing into suds in the sink.

            Dean rubbed his knuckles over his jaw, then turned and vanished through the doorway. No fight. Argument, aborted.

            John burned with resentment toward his son, a torch he carried close to his chest throughout the rest of that week and into the next. Even Mary’s soothing presence didn’t quench the fire. There was no more music, no more laughter in the house; like the months that Sam had been in Nashville, but somehow worse. When John changed the oil in the Impala, Dean never appeared. He showed up at the end of meals, ate quickly, and disappeared back upstairs.

            Mary ran reconnaissance, at John’s request.

            Dean wasn’t playing his guitar, wasn’t researching. He was sleeping, or staring at the ceiling in his bedroom, and wouldn’t open himself to any of them. Not to Bobby, not to Mary; John didn’t even try.

            “What’s wrong with him?” John asked when Mary brought back her report; he scrubbed his face with tired, chapped hands. Every inch of him was tired, from the tips of his hair to the soles of his boots. World-weary and tired.

            “He’s grieving.” Mary said.

            Grieving. Like someone had died.

            And then, two days before Seattle, there was a knock on the front door that had John approaching warily, peering through the peephole; then yanking it open wide.

            Hands stuffed into his pockets, expression querulous, Sam shrugged his elbows away from his body. “We have a fight to get to.”

            “Dean,” John called over his shoulder, but Dean had already appeared behind him, silent and wraithlike.

            “The prodigal’s back.” Dean’s tone was flat.

            Sam’s nostrils flared. “I’m not here for you. I’m here because I don’t have a _car_.”

            “Don’t you two start. Not right now.” John sidestepped, allowing Sam entrance. “Pack a bag, Dean. We’re going to Seattle.”

            “I think I’m gonna stick around base camp this time.” Dean said, affecting a tone of nonchalance. “You two can head out.”

            “And who’s gonna watch my ass while Sam’s in the ring?” John still had the distinct and unpleasant memory of a surge of bodies in the mirror behind him, of having his head slammed into the dewy porcelain rim of a toilet and getting his ribs crunched by a steel-toed boot before they’d left him lying in that stall. Not something he particularly wanted to repeat; he was lucky enough to have escaped broken ribs the first time around. And as the stakes rose, the demons were only going to get more desperate, and more creative in their methods of distraction.

            Dean’s eyes flickered, and then he hung his head and groaned. “Yeah, fine. Seattle. Sounds awesome.”

 

-X-

 

            Seattle—cold, rainy, overcast Seattle—was the opposite of awesome.

            The arena itself was on the outskirts of the city, not far from a strip of overgrown spruce trees. It reflected the atmosphere: hazy, knitted with dampness, the steel walls chilly to the touch. It looked more like a prison compound than anything, and Dean felt the cold molasses of dread spidering up the back of his neck, craning his head back to peer up at the barbed wire fence encircling the arena.

            “This place gives me the creeps,” He muttered.

            “It’s Lusiver’s territory. What did you expect?” John was equally quiet, and Sam was mute, brewing with fury.

            Dean wished they’d both just stay the hell away from him.

            He’d thought he was cooling out from his irritation toward Sam, but just one look at that smug, tight face left him immersed in it all over again. Sam’s thermal shirt hid the brand on his arm, negating that last tie to the family.

            And, John. Dean’s jaw still hurt from that one. Ever since he’d come back to Lawrence with Mary, Dean and his father had made an art form of dodging the important things. Given the outcome, Dean could understand why they’d made that effort, burying their feelings into bottomless graves. Words unspoken didn’t hurt half as much as the things you couldn’t take back once you’d said them.

            And again, Dean glanced at Sam.

            Lusiver’s arena was just on this side of a Pit; the people in attendance were dressed like him, a wealthy kind of casual, almost as dressed-down as Dean but looking like they’d had to put thought into that. Dean was starting to see big cities as glass mannequins reflecting whatever demon led them: the casual elegance of Salt Lake City, suit-and-jacket Orlando, bursting bright colors in Chicago, and now this.

            He wondered which side of Lilith would be reflected in Nashville, and felt a brief, unwelcome spasm of apprehension.

            Close and cluttered, the arena was all bumping elbows and murmurs behind cupped hands. Dean had an impression of mistrust and wariness being the oxygen these people breathed; every eye studying every face. The ring itself was the stage in the middle of a room resembling an airplane hangar; the ceiling peaked high over their heads, the smooth concrete floor was orderly except for the ring itself in the dead center, upraised and surrounded by chained-link and topped with barbed wire. More of the same, an encased feeling and Dean had to wonder if that was for Sam’s benefit; if there was some horror from Nashville brought  to mind by the sharp confines of the ring.

            If there was, Sam was betraying it. He was glossed with sweat and his eyes were overbright, casing the room in darting sweeps. Dean choked down the immediate concern that leaped to mind, and replaced it with: “What the hell is your problem?”

            “I need a breather.” Sam said. “I’ll be back.” He turned and strode toward the opposite end of the compound, his long legs bearing him out of their sight in seconds.

            “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Dean abandoned John, and followed Sam.

            He wasn’t hard to follow, even with the crowd swelling into the cracks of the hangar; people tended to part like the Red Sea when Sam was around, and that gave Dean clear view, stopping dead in his tracks, as Sam uncapped a silver flask from the waistband of his jeans and took several long pulls, holding his motley hair back from his face with his free hand.

            “Oh, crap.” Dean muttered, conviction settling hard as a stone in his gut. “Sam, what the hell are you doin’?”

            Sam slowly tipped his head back down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and shaking a few scarce drops of murky liquid onto the floor. Dean heard him swear, saw his fist clench tight around the flask, before the crowd closed around him and Sam vanished from view.

            Dean pillowed his face in his hands for a second, trying to find something other than righteous fury in the darkness behind his sweaty palms.

            Something poked his back. “Reach for the sky, Winchester.”

            Dean spun on a dime, catching a slender wrist in his hand; his eyes shot wide when recognition broke through. “ _Jo_?”

            “Ow?” Jo nodded to his vice-tight grip on her arm, and Dean released her.

            “What are you—?”

            “My mom and I were in town, running a Pit up near the border.”

“With the Kitsune?”

“Yeah, she’s still alive. Got a few more scars, but that’s par for the course. And don’t worry, my mom’s got her on lockdown in the van and they were both sawing logs when I left. I’ll be back before they notice I’m gone.”

“Yeah, but _why are you here_?”

“Word gets around. People can’t stop talking about you, Dean.” Jo crossed her arms and cocked a hip. “I gotta say, I’m impressed. You made it all the way to the Leagues. That was one hell of an uphill climb.”

            Dean wasn’t sure if he surprised her, pulling her against his side for a one-armed hug and dropping a kiss onto the top of her head. “Damn, I’m glad to see you.”

            “Easy there, cowboy.” Jo leaned her head back, meeting his eyes. “You’re looking pretty rough.”

            “Been a hell of a month.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “How’d you get in here, anyway? You didn’t buy in, right?”

            “Technically, I’m…not here?” Jo’s voice tipped the words into a question, and Dean raised his eyebrows. “Look, we pulled it off back in New York, sneaking into that arena. Just don’t tell my mom.”

            “Jo, you could get _arrested_.”

            “So could you, but I don’t see you shaking in your boots.” When Dean leveled a glare at her, she added, “I’m a big girl, Dean, I can take care of myself. Besides, I wanted to see Sam in action, in a fight where I didn’t have to stake a claim.”

            “Trust me, Jo, this is the last place on planet _earth_ you wanna see Sam.” Dean kept one arm around her shoulders, steering her toward where he’d left John. “But I am _not_ letting you run around here by yourself. You stick close, got it?”

            “Works for me. It’s not like I came here to shoot pool with a bunch of demons.”

            John looked equal parts surprised and annoyed to see Jo. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

            “Do you have to sound so authoritarian? I’m old enough to decide where to go for myself, thanks.” Jo hooked her hair behind her ears. “So? Where’s Sam?”

            “Doing his own thing.” Dean surveyed the crowd, the plunge of his gut bringing back the memory of seeing Sam drinking. _Getting wasted_. Or worse. Something told him it was worse than that.

            Jo studied Dean, familiar eyes missing nothing. “Those stories about Chicago. They’re all true, aren’t they?”

            Dean swallowed. “Which ones?”

            It was answer enough for Jo. “ _Holy_ crap.”

            “That’s an understatement.” John said grimly. “Sam’s out of control.”

            “And you let him in here? Dean, are you kidding me?” Jo’s eyes popped like sparks. “He’s gonna kill somebody!”

            “It’s not my call.” Dean said. “It’s his.”

            “Ladies and gentlemen, hobos and tramps, gather ’round, gather ’round!” The referee stepped into the ring through a latched gate quivering with barbed wire, interrupting their whisper-yelling conversation. “That’s right, scoot on in, it’s time to get this show on the road!”

            Everything about his man screamed _large:_ beer gut, inflated lips, froggy eyes. His voice reached out to the corners of the hangar without the use of a microphone, and Dean realized that was another way this compound resembled the average Pit: no fancy speakers, no thumping music. The tattoo of rain and the surly heft of voices filled in any breach of silence. In a way, it was almost reminiscent, and would’ve been comforting.

            Dean felt the prickle of eyes on him and turned a quick circle on the spot, ignoring Jo when she asked him what he was doing, avoiding John’s eyes on the come-around, and spotting the thatch of dirty-blond hair.

            Lusiver reclined against the wall, tapping a finger to his lips. When he caught Dean’s boiling stare, he winked, crinkling the crows-feet behind his eyes, and nodded to the ring. Dean spared a glance over his shoulder as Sam stepped in, to the hoots and catcalls of the people.

            Dean wondered how many of them had fallen under Lusiver’s wicked graces, here to make a show out of Sam. Rattling keys, taunts, or worse. And like Lusiver could read his turbulent thoughts, the demon pursed his lips and shrugged innocently; Dean took a step forward, leaned away from a swath of people moving past, and by the time they’d gotten out of his way, Dean was glaring ice at an empty wall.

            “Dean.” Jo gripped his arm, gave him a tug. “What’s going on?”

            “Something’s not right.” Dean didn’t take his eyes off of the spot where Lusiver had vanished.

            “Something like _what_?”

            “Dunno, can’t pin it down. Just stay on your toes.” Dean turned his attention back to the arena as the referee guided Sam’s opponent inside.

            She didn’t look like much of a fighter; didn’t look like much of a person, wrapped inside a black shroud of a coat and shaking, wide eyes, sunken into their sockets, scouring Sam warily. Sam returned the stare pitilessly, and Dean knew how it felt to be burned with that fierce indifference.

He cramped his hand into a fist.

“Lily Baker. Sam Winchester,” The referee said their names with a flourish, pausing to let the crowd roar its appreciation. “You know the rules. Three-minute rounds with one-minute breaks in between. Keep it clean.”

There was some jeering, at that, and for the first time Dean realized that this crowd, this really _was_ a Pit crowd. They wanted a good show.

Which made Dean wonder why Lusiver had stuck this thin, waxen-faced girl in the corner across from Sam. Demon or not, she looked terrified.

The referee brought his arm down in a cutting motion to signify the beginning of the round, and Dean shook out his fist to avoid digging his fingernails into his palm.

Sam plowed in without hesitation, but Lily Baker was quick, slipping out of his reach in two short steps. Her arms were still wrapped around her body protectively, and she didn’t attack; just moved out of Sam’s reach. Dean could see the mounting frustration in every hardened contour of Sam’s body; he wasn’t used to being evaded.

For the first time in months, Dean couldn’t focus on a fight; like the weeks before Portal, everything felt indistinct around him. His brain was firing all pistons on full steam, trying to parse out the unsettled feeling in his gut.

A girl that dodged instead of fighting; the way Lilith had set up their fights for them: Salt Lake City, Orlando, Chicago, Seattle, Nashville. Either random choice, or a pattern. And with demons, wasn’t it always a pattern? Patterns inside of patterns, all funneling toward an endgame.

Lily almost backed into the referee, avoiding Sam’s advances, and the portly man pushed her gently back into the center of the stage. Sam circled her, his eyes cutting with disdain, sizing her up and weighing her, worthless. Barely a threat.

Winning was making Sam arrogant.

Sam, drinking from a flask before a fight; sneaking out at night, moving out, gaining strength and tone in leaps and bounds. Refusing to train with Dean, with John. Moving by his own set of rules. Moving to the beat of a song none of them could hear or understand.

Sam had changed; ever since Lilith had taken him, he’d been different. First reserved, then almost too ambitious in the fights. Then, obsessed: with being in control, with winning, with stopping the demons. Throwing his own life out the window like it didn’t matter, and somehow coming to believe it _hadn’t_ mattered, to any of them, least of all to Dean.

“Why?” Dean hissed through gritted teeth. “C’mon, what am I missing?”

“Y’all right, Dean?” John asked briskly, and Dean ignored him.

Lusiver’s conspiratorial, almost comradely wink had left Dean’s gut sour and his heart pounding. Something was off; tilting, on the verge of spinning out of control.

In the ring, Lily Baker finally stopped running; she turned on Sam in a flap of her coat like a bird’s wings, grinding the heel of her hand against Sam’s forehead.

Sam went still; for one heartbeat, then two. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t flinch, but Dean felt a corona of electric energy surging between the two of them, and something deep in his chest felt like it was breaking apart.

_Oh, crap…son of a bitch no, no, no-no-no—_

The referee announced the first breather and Lily jerked her hand away, backing into her corner; Dean caught a glimpse of dusty hair at ground level, and Lily’s hiss carried toward them: “ _Why the hell isn’t it working, you said it would work_!”

“Patience, child.” Lusiver soothed, loud enough to be heard about the nattering voices of the crowd. “All good things come to those who wait Trust me. It’s all part of the plan.”

            “Why can’t I hurt him? Nothing you’ve ever pitched at me has done that before. What the hell _is_ that thing?”

Dean’s eyes widened until they itched at the edges. “ _Sam._ ”

“What?” John growled.

“This isn’t about the fight, it never was!” Dean couldn’t tear his gaze away from Sam, stalking his corner, waiting for his chance to strike. “This is about something the demons have been cooking up, this _whole damn time_!”

“But that doesn’t make any sense, Dean, what would the demons want with Sam? Why do they care if he makes it or not?” Jo demanded.

“Because he’s—”

The referee barked a command for attention, dropped his arm, and it was the end, really, of everything.

Sam elbowed Lily in the jaw before she’d even stepped out of the corner. A spray of saliva peppered his skin and Sam took her down on the mat, pounding her in the torso, then gripping a handful of her hair.

            Lily screamed when Sam ripped a thatch of long blond threads from her scalp, blossoming blood. He pinched her throat and twisted, snapping her vocal chords, leaving her a bucking, silent wraith beneath him as he stripped off more hair, and then leaned down, sinking his teeth into her skin.

            “You call this a fight, this is torturing someone!” Jo was incensed, straining forward like she was going to intervene. Like any of them were. “He’s _biting_ her, Dean, what kind of freak is he? Somebody has to stop him!”

            And then the referee, finally, did. With a bellow to call the fight, he stepped in.

            Sam spun on his knees, snatching the man by his throat; fingernails digging in around the man’s windpipe, hefting him back. A man who easily outweighed Sam by a hundred and fifty pounds, and Sam moved him staggering away from Lily like he didn’t weigh a damn thing.

            “Oh my God,” Jo breathed. “He’s gonna kill him.”

            “No, he’s not.”

            And Dean took off running, slipping John’s hold when John made a grab for his jacket, shedding it to the floor on the move.

            Careening for the arena, Dean was struck with the brutal, unforgiving knowledge that everything Lilith had done—letting him take Sam home, trading Sam for the Colt—and the things she hadn’t done—hadn’t arrested Dean, hadn’t taken retribution for Dean attacking Dana, for John going toe-to-toe with Azazel, none of it, _all of it_ , everything—it had been a ruse. A brilliantly-crafted lie.

Lilith hadn’t wanted the gun, hadn’t ever had her designs set on it; she hadn’t had any reluctance in letting them leave the Reactor, and hadn’t taken Dean out of the picture, because it had been a part of her plan. Her plan, that had carried out to perfection.

            Her plan, which was currently choking the life out of the referee on the stage.

            Dean grabbed the barbed wire and vaulted into the arena, stepping over Lily’s unnaturally still body, blood squirting from her jugular. He ignored the screams of the onlookers, ordering him out of the cage. He lunged toward Sam, and toward the referee, whose face had gone from purple to cyanic blue in seconds; he was no longer squirming in Sam’s grip.

            “Sam, that’s enough! _Enough_!” Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam’s sleeve and gave an almighty yank to wrench him off balance.

            And sealed his own fate in the motion.

            Sam’s fist slammed into Dean’s face, and it was over.

 

-X-

 

            Sam didn’t know love.

            He’d been a stigma as a child, to his parents, and to the demons. A monster that never reached its potential. He remembered being poked and prodded and wrangled through tests from the time he had cognizant thought, but they’d never been able to make him anything more than a tool of training for other, better-developed creatures.

            Eventually, with inevitability, there had come the night Lilith had decided he was more trouble than he was worth; Lilith, the same little girl who’d glared between the slats of his cage, calling him a freak since he was too little to know what the word meant. That word, he’d learned the meaning of it on the ends of whips and chains and hands forcing him onto the muddy floor of a Snatcher nest, where he’d been ready to die.

            And then, there had been—

            Sam just wanted Lily dead. Her touch has spasmed with power, reminding him of what it had felt like to feel pain. An infant specimen with abilities similar to Lilith’s, Lily could hurt, maybe even kill most monsters, with a touch. No wonder Lusiver loved her.

            No wonder Sam wanted to kill her.

            And not just kill her; but pay back in full on what had been done to him. Sam didn’t know love, but he knew pain. He knew how it tasted, how it could white-wash your bones, make you scarlet-red and pale as snow.

            So when he took her down, he had only one thought that burst through the surfing hightide of Masque in his veins, one goal: make her _suffer._

He ripped out clumps of that dirty-blonde hair, and imagined it was Lilith; when she screamed, the noise piercing his ears, he silenced her. And with the annoying sensation of her pulse under his hand, Sam took the sharpest weapon he had, and put it to good use.

            He’d wondered, once, what blood tasted like; had almost given over to letting a vampire bite him, for that very reason. Just to know if his blood was any different, before he’d even been fully aware of what he was.

            The taste of the blood was brackish and bitter, with that undercurrent like licking a battery, or a dirty coin. Sam found himself swallowing, a raw red crease of adrenaline unfolding along the back of his throat, splashing down to join the Masque in his belly.

            It seemed to bring screaming voices with it, a howling whirlwind of accusations. Sam closed his eyes, barely aware that Lily’s struggles had faded, that the blood jetting against his lips was slowing down.

            When he heard the referee’s thundering footfalls, a warning sound, _danger_ , Sam spun on his knees, catching the man by the throat; staring into those wide, soaking eyes, like a toad’s, and wondering with a distracted disparagement whose stupid idea it had been to make humans into referees for League fights.

            Just another demonic game. They were all demons here.

            Sam didn’t know love, but he knew how to inflict pain; how to strangle the life out of a man, slow and sweet. He watched those eyes bulge and cross, the referee swinging boneless and torrid, his many chins folding over Sam’s fist. Sam tightened his hold and the man’s limbs jerked spasmodically, unable to rise even high enough to scrabble at Sam’s wrist.

            _Just be what you are, Sam._

_Demon. You always were a demonic little shit, that’s why your family died._

_That’s why they all want you dead, Sam. It’s why everyone turns away._

Sam’s fingers were crushing the man’s windpipe; if he didn’t retract his fist, there’d be permanent damage if death could even be avoided, at this point, and that was unlikely.

            _Lilith always knew you’d come running back with open arms._

 _Running straight toward what you are_.

            The voices, self-hatred, loathing, even, and conviction, slaughtering him from the inside. Every muscle was clenched, every nerve sensitive to the touch, laid bare against his skin with a fuse waiting to be lit.

            A hand clamped over his arm, and Sam exploded; wheeling around with a driving punch that threw Dean onto his haunches on the floor, dazed, limpid green eyes rolling back into his skull.

            Sam didn’t know love, but he knew a grudge.

            Sam dropped the referee and went for the more readily available target.

            Dean didn’t even fight it when Sam hauled him up by his collar and pummeled him; face, throat, stomach, groin, working his way down the tender spots. Tender on a human, tender on a demon. He was blinded by hatred, by rage, by his own blood, by the Masque. It was a sum of all things, and it was flesh that met his fists, it was something that ramped up his emotions until he was living on nothing else. Barely breathing.

            Blood sprayed the arena floor; Sam crushed Dean on the mat and slammed blow after blow into his torso, feeling slippery guts moving on the inside. One thought in his mind, sharpened by the drugs: eliminate the threat. Render incapable of interfering. Nobody else would touch him, ever again; nobody _should_.

            Sam’s head snapped around at the sick wet splurge of Dean vomiting onto the floor of the ring; he was doubled over and shielding himself with arms across his chest, and that just incensed Sam even more. Whipping onto his feet, bashing Dean in the ribs hard enough to snap a few, Sam dragged him up again.

            “Fight back!” He snarled. “Come on, you coward, _fight me_!”

            “Not—gonna fight you,” Dean’s voice bubbled thick and wet with blood. His lips trembled; tears coursed untamed down his cheeks, through a plethora of cuts from Sam’s knuckles. “Sam, _please_ —”

            Sam hurled him down and crunched a boot into his stomach; Dean folded over it with a spitting cry of agony, then flattened on his back, his throat tight with repressed sobs, or screams, his mouth straining open. Blood soaked his teeth.

            “I don’t want your pity!” Sam howled, dropping to a knee beside him, yanking him up and slamming him against the fencing. “I don’t need you!”

            Dean’s head rocked forward, and his bloodshot eyes were hooded with a look that wasn’t a glare, wasn’t anger, even, but was intense enough to scald Sam. “Don’t…care. I’m not,” He sucked in air, hard, his breathing hopscotched enough as it was with pain. “I’m not giving up on you, Sammy.”

            Sam hauled back and punched him again. “You don’t _know_ me!”

            “You’re my little brother.” Dean’s fingers curled into what barely counted as a fist in the front of Sam’s shirt. “You are _my_ family.”

            Sam stared at him, a twisting patchwork of blood across stubbled cheeks, streaked through dirty brownish-blond hair. Blood ran freely from the corners of Dean’s mouth, his gums an anemic pinkish-white when his lips flared. He breathed past a punctured lung.

            And he was still there. Still not fighting back.

            “Just fight me, dammit.” Sam’s voice pitched low, breathless itself.

            Dean’s hand fell away. “I’m not letting you go, Sam. Don’t care if you’re a demon.”

            Sam’s hand dropped. He rocketed to his feet, stepping back, staring down at Dean; feeling a punch of something headier than Masque, more powerful than his ire, choking off every notion of air as he came blindingly aware of Dean’s matted, blood-soaked clothes, the ruts of wounds in his face, scarlet speckles flying from his mouth when he breathed.

            Sam found love on the backside of a coin, in the stains on his fist and the sudden desertion of strength as he realized that Dean knew. Dean knew exactly what Sam was.

            And Dean was right here.

            Standing in the gap for him, like always.

            “Oh, my God.” Sam breathed, and there was more than that. _What’s happening to me, what did I do, oh, God, no, no no no no—_

            He felt something toxic surging in the back of his throat; thought, for a second, that he was about to vomit. And then realized it went deeper than that. It was a slickness of his vessels, in his stomach.

            Sam yanked up his sleeves and bared his forearms in front of him, wrists together like a man to be chained, wide eyes tracing frantically, staring in horror and, for the first time in months, with comprehension, at the varicose branches of black that spidered through his veins; blotting out the _Winchester_ brand, erasing everything he’d been before. Becoming him: a monster. A scourge.

            The mark of a demon.

A puppet on a toxic string.   
            “No,” He stepped back. “Oh, God, I— _Dean_.”

            Dean slumped onto one elbow, wheezing now more than breathing, sounding like he was strangling, or drowning in his own fluids. And suddenly John was there, ropes of bruises on his arms like he’d been held back by cruel hands, leaping over the barbed wire and sliding onto his knees beside his son. John cradled Dean’s head in one hand, holding it clear of the mat, and the blood from Dean’s mouth dribbled down John’s palm and dripped to the floor.

            John stared at Sam with nothing but blank shock.

            And then he was bellowing, at somebody outside of the ring, “ _We need some help in here_!”

            Sam stepped forward, feeling his eyes burning, tears threatening. “Dean—”

            “You stay away from him!” John snarled, turning back to Sam.

            Sam looked down, tried to catch Dean’s eye, but Dean’s eyes were closed. With a shock of nauseated panic, Sam didn’t know if they would ever open again. Couldn’t tell if Dean was even breathing.

            So Sam did the only thing he knew how to do. Black veins, and Masque, and his own sins crushing him under the weight of the world.

            Sam fled.

 


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter Thirty-Five: Sins and Scars

 

            Once he’d started running, Sam couldn’t stop.

            He busted through the arena door, slamming through a crowd of people huddled outside in the clammy gloom, smoking sweet-smelling cigarettes. Ignoring their protests as he ricocheted between them, Sam scrambled up and over the fence, gouging his palms on the barbed wire; knowing, but unable to feel. He wished he could feel, wished an iota of the pain would seep through to tip the balance of the searing anguish that roiled in his chest like a storm.

            Sam plunged over the treeline and through the forest, ignoring branches that caught and ripped at his clothing, gashing his shirt and digging into the denim of his jeans. He fled the sight of Dean’s broken body, his own guilt, and all of the devils that pounded on his heels, reminding him that there wasn’t a future left for him, especially not now. Not after what he’d done.

            Sam ran until his lungs felt small and tight and inflamed, until he’d put more distance than he could measure between himself and the arena, and it still wasn’t enough. He tumbled down a short incline and landed on his hands and knees in a fast-flowing stream. The water was cold as icemelt and gushed over his cracked, bleeding knuckles, and Sam stared at his reflection: his hair hanging over his ears, framing cheekbones freckled with Dean’s blood. His chin was sweep-coated where he’d practically fed— _fed_ —on Lily’s throat.

            Sam didn’t recognize his own face; hadn’t looked in a mirror since the night Ruby had told him exactly what he was. But in his echo on the water he could see the skirling lines of Masque that littered his veins: finally solving the mystery of the cloudy insides of demons, what made them so different. Sam wondered if it had traveled to his eyes, pooling through them like Andy’s. If he’d stared at Dean through a haze of onyx, and _hated_. Hated so bitterly, he’d almost killed.

            Almost killed _Dean_.

            Sam swiped a hand down his face, turning the blood to pink runoff and saturating his hair. He scrubbed his hands vigorously clean in the icy swells, then scooted up the bank, muddy and shaking, realizing belatedly that it was raining, that he was soaked all the way through. Just another thing the Masque had dulled him to.

            The revulsion that pierced through him was sharp as a hammerstrike. Sam pitched to his hands and knees and shoved his fingers down his throat, heaving up a spray of greenish-black and red, mingling into brown: blood and drugs, purging his system but not emptying himself of the horrors he’d faced, of what he’d done.

            Sam vomited, over and over again, because once he started it was hard to stop; he hadn’t eaten decent food in days, had been surviving on a diet of Masque and scraps of food and training, and he was done. Worn thin and wrung out and _done_ ; and there was a part of him that was glad no one came to wrap an arm around him, to sit him up and sweep the hair from his clammy forehead and make sure he was all right.

            He didn’t deserve it.

            But after a few minutes of his stomach folding in on itself and dispelling nothing, Sam had to relent, had to drag his fingers out of his throat and look around him. Several feet up the bank, a tree had fallen and sunk deep into the mud, offering shelter in a tangle of branches that formed a three-sided hollow. Spitting and shaking so hard his arms could barely support his weight, Sam crawled inside and faced the open. Bringing his knees to his chest, he crossed his arms on his upper legs and rested his forehead on them.

            And waited.

            He counted every heartbeat that thrummed in his ears, and tried to justify what he’d done; tried to fit it into the mold of everything that worked, into a two-dimensional world where he was in charge, in control. The hero of his own story.

            None of those things made sense now; Sam was seeing his strings, a puppet that had danced at Lilith’s command from the moment he’d left the Reactor. The way she’d pushed him, and he’d let himself get pushed; into isolation, and further, into rebellion. He hadn’t been worth the struggle that the Winchesters had put forward for him, and he’d always believed that.

            But Sam had never wanted it proved with Dean on the losing side of his fists.

            Swallowing mucous and saliva, Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight; trying to retrace his footsteps through a filmy blanket of drugs and ambition, he couldn’t find any one place where he’d fallen off the wagon. He’d been stepping down, really, a inch at a time, trying to be inconspicuous about it. And maybe that had all begun the day he’d decided nothing mattered except winning his way through the Leagues, making sure Lilith couldn’t steal whatever happiness he had left in his family.

            He’d lost sight of that, too. Lost sight of everything except cashing in the chip on his shoulder against the demons; he’d forgotten, really, that there was a purpose other than proving a point. What was the use of a home you could never go back to, of people you could never belong to?

            But Dean had _made_ him belong.

            Maybe with his dying breath.

            Sam shivered, burrowing his head harder against his forearms.

            He wasn’t surprised when he heard the crunch of boots over soaked twigs, swishing across wet leaves and squelching through the mud. The approach slowed, close at hand, and then stopped altogether.

            Sam tipped his head back, slowly.

            John was breathing hard, open mouthed, like he’d been running, and the accusation in his eyes was hot enough to burn in a way Sam could really feel. He clenched his jaw.

            “Did you come out here to kill me?” The words emerged out shaking around full-body tremors despite his best efforts, and Sam sniffed rainwater from the tip of his nose, drying his face with a sodden sleeve.

            He was stunned to see John’s eyes soften on the approach. Resting one hand on the roof of interwoven branches, John ducked his head down. “I didn’t come to kill you, Sam.” He surveyed the cave. “Mind if I sit?”

            Sam shrugged noncommittally, putting his chin down on his arms this time, to watch John as he crawled his way inside and turned around, situating himself with a few feet of careful open space between them.

            They listened to the rain fall, and gradually Sam realized John hadn’t been joking; he wasn’t here to exact his revenge.

            “Why’d you do it?” John asked at length, and the question fell like a pin dropping in total silence.

            “Why’d I hurt Dean?” It was a loaded question with a loaded response.

            “Why’d you _stop_?”

            Sam was surprised, again, and had to mull it over as he watched the rain washing his vomit down the slippery hillside. “He told me I was still family.”

            “And we made you doubt that, huh?”

            “God, no. It wasn’t your fault, it was me.” Sam scratched at his arm, wanted to scratch the infection from under his skin. “It’s what I am.” He let a pause swell in the silence. “You _should_ kill me. I could show you how to do it.”

            “Already told you, I’m not here to pick a fight.”

            “Then why _are_ you here?” Sam was surprised to find the strength to put a punch into the question. He waited with bated breath, not entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer.

            “Dean figured it out. What you were.” John said. “Me, I didn’t know it until I saw those dark veins on you, son. But I think we were all just foolin’ ourselves off the jump. It was the only answer that made sense.”

            That gave Sam pause. “You thought maybe I was a—?”

            “I had theories. Notions. Nothing concrete to go on, and no proof. Most of the time, you seemed…hell, average. Almost human. I don’t think any of us really wanted the truth, Sam. Faceless is easier.”

            “You should’ve killed me back when you first picked me up.”

            “Stop for a second, and listen to what I’m telling you.” John interrupted sharply. “I followed you because I know what’s going on in your head right now, Sam. And maybe—” He cut off abruptly, dragging a hand down his mouth. “Maybe I can relate.”

            There was a beat of silence. “How could you possibly—?”

            “By all rights, I’m half-demon, Sam.” John’s gaze was fixed on something faraway, something Sam couldn’t see or comprehend. “Means Dean’s quarter, but him and Mary, they don’t know a damn thing about it. My father came after me with an axe when I was just a boy, and I killed him—tried to kill him, anyway, son of a bitch could still be alive for all I know—and I bailed. Ran away to the military, ran into hunting, ran away from Mary and Dean.”

            “I don’t…it’s not genetic, right?” Sam asked. “Dean’s all human.”

            “No, I don’t think it’s genetic.” John admitted. “These things don’t just pass along. But I still got the blood of something unnatural in me, Sam, and it’s scared the hell outta me for decades. Thinking about what might be living inside me, it’s still eatin’ me alive to this day. So if any man can understand what you’re goin’ through,” He rocked his head slightly. “Believe me, I’m him.”

            “Why didn’t you tell Mary and Dean?”

            “Why didn’t _you_ , Sam? How long you been sittin’ on this, and you never came clean to any of us?”

            There was a prolonged and profound silence, and Sam continued to shiver; his ripped shirt had long since been soaked through, and his skin prickled with goosebumps.

            “It started back in Montana.” He said, softly. “There was this girl, Ruby. At first I just thought she was kind of a…casual admirer. I sort of forgot about her. Then she showed up, in, uh,” He cleared his throat. “In New Orleans. She gave me her number.”

            “And you talked to her?”

            “Brought her into town, actually.” Sam’s tone was hollow, he felt hollow; what use was lying? What had it gained him up until now?

            “ _Sam_.” John shook his head.

            “We started training,” Sam added, quickly, eager to finish the story now that he’d started. “She was showing me these moves that were supposed to help me, supposed to keep me from getting hurt. I dunno, I guess I was so sick of having all these monsters rip me to shreds every week, I just…I jumped on what she gave me.”

            “Manipulating. Demons are good at that.”

            Sam shifted his numb hindquarters on the soil. “Yeah. Well, she played me like a fiddle. Got me hooked on this stuff, Masque, and I just,” He smoothed a hand over his mud-caked jeans. “I lost control.”

            “Is this Ruby girl still around?”

            “No.” Sam murmured. “After I found out what I was, I made her leave. She hasn’t tried to contact me since.” He wet his dry lips with his tongue. “She, um. She told Lusiver where I was, though. So he probably knows where you guys live.”

            “Uh-huh.” John hummed. “And what about the fights with Dean? The way you moved out in a hurry?”

            “I got obsessed. Maybe I still am, I dunno.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I just know that…nothing else mattered. Y’know? I wanted to shoot straight for Lilith, and I forgot about everything else. Even you guys.” He swallowed around the next painful truth: “Especially you guys.”

            “ _Especially_ us?” John echoed in a steely voice.

            “Yeah. I mean, having a family, it’s the only thing I ever wanted. And I pretty much talked myself out of it when I found out I was a—” The word stuck like a thorn in Sam’s throat, refusing to be given over.

            “Demon?” John supplied, and Sam flinched.

            “Yeah. One of those.”

            John drew one leg to his chest and stretched out the other, leaning his shoulders back against the mesh of branches. “Sam, I’ve seen a lot of what this life has to offer. The good. The bad. The downright nasty. I’ve seen men drag girls into dark streets, watched them steal from each other. I’ve seen a human put a gun to my son’s head in a busy street because he lost a fight. I’ve heard hundreds of them out there, laughing while fighters bleed. But you know what else I’ve seen?”

            “What else d’you _need_?” Sam matched him, question for question, but John didn’t seem fazed.

            “I saw a boy pull Dean out of a wrecked car before he’d fix his own head. That same boy—that same _man_ , he held me up when I was too sick to stand on my own. And when this family didn’t have a hope left for makin’ it through the week, that man said he’d fight for us. And I believed him.”

            Heat budded in Sam’s eyes again. “I’m not that person anymore. I never was, John, I’m a _demon_.”

            “Sammy, you’re not listening to me.” John reached over, gripped Sam’s shoulder. “It’s not what you are that makes the man. It’s what you _do_.”

            Sam sucked in a shivering breath through gritted teeth. “I just…I almost _killed_ Dean.” He rolled his eyes sideways to hide the wetness that he could feel dappling his field of vision. “I _did_ that.”

            “Life doesn’t end on one choice, Sam. It’s a whole series of ’em.” John let his hand drop. “It’s your move.”

            Sam studied him. “You’d take me back. You, of all people. After _everything_?”

            John’s gaze hardened. “I won’t say I trust you. I can’t go back to that. But I won’t let you freeze to death out here.” John crawled out from under the overhang and turned, offering a hand. “Sam. Your choice.”

            Sam stared at John’s hand; wanted to grab it, so powerfully he almost choked. He wanted to be taken in and set right.

            “Can we just…what about Dean? Is he okay?”

            John smiled a half-smile, taut, then going soft. “Baby steps.” He moved back, and Sam followed him out, stiff and frozen halfway through. “Jo went with Dean to the hospital in the city. You sure you wanna go in there?”

            The word _hospital_ clunked on the mud between them. “What could Lusiver _possibly_ do that’s worse than what I already did?” He shook his head when John started to answer. “I don’t think I can face him, though. Dean. I don’t think I can—”

            “Sam.” John cut him off firmly. “You need to see him. Talk to him, when he wakes up. He needs to know what happened. He’s been down a long time, tryin’ to figure out what happened to you.”

            Sam stood there feeling naked, arms wrapped around himself. “Every choice I made— _every choice_ —was the wrong one.”

            “I won’t argue that.” John laid a hand on Sam’s back, giving him a gentle shove back toward the dense treeline. “But I’d be a hypocrite to disown you for it.”

            Somehow, that was worse.

            The drive to Seattle was painfully long and Sam spent it with his heart in his throat and a swollen tongue. John didn’t say anything, with tense words intimated in the silence. Even with the unparalleled tolerance John was showing him, Sam knew there was blame there, and it rested on his shoulders.

            Sam leaned his temple against the window, staring at that same unfamiliar reflection; like falling asleep and waking up with a stranger in the mirror. He knew the Masque had taken every weakness and every hurt and magnified them tenfold, had shut down the pain receptors in his brain and heightened everything else like a spotlight.

            But that didn’t excuse what he’d done.

            Seattle was a hub of activity and John had to take several backstreets to find the hospital, following directions on a soggy postcard from his pocket. _From the paramedics_ , he’d explained when he’d whipped it out, and the fact that they’d need _paramedics_ to take care of Dean—that this wasn’t something a t-shirt, a spool of gauze and a dishrag could cure—left Sam wanting to hang his head out the window and throw up again.

            He wanted somebody to take his face in their hands and explain how this had happened; any of it, _all_ of it.

            The hospital shown with bleak sheetrock contrast to a murky mauve sunset as John pulled up in the parking lot. Sam hunched low in his seat, exhausted from the fight, exhausted from running, from feeling. Like he’d opened himself up to a barrage of emotions he’d repressed for months, and he’d lost his touch, now, he couldn’t control a single one of them. They were in full focus, in power.

            “Ready?” John popped the door of the Impala and slid out, and Sam ran his hand over the dashboard once before he climbed out, too, slamming the door shut in his wake.

            John caught sight of Sam’s palms as he swiped them down his jeans, the crusting of blood with leaf litter mashed into the gashes. “That’s gotta hurt like a sonuvabitch.”

            Sam swallowed. “Remember that drug I said I was taking?” He flicked a glance at John, then looked down again. “I don’t—can’t feel pain.” He chuckled, brief and empty, then hid his hands in his pockets. “Guess my head’s pretty messed up.”

            John didn’t say anything, just walked on ahead toward the hospital; Sam could read the anger in the lines of his shoulders, let his own shoulders slump forward.

            The inside of the building smelled like vinegar, antiseptic and just a hint of urine. Sam wrinkled his nose and tried to meld into the background, sinking into one of the hard plastic chairs and massaging his palm; dinging in, with his fingertips, trying to prompt some sensation of pain and receiving no reward for his efforts.

            Eyes studied him in passing; they knew him. They knew who Sam was, and they steered clear. Two irrational halves of Sam split apart: the side that thought they were smart to keep their difference, and the side that screamed with the loneliness that could only come from being in a crowd.

            “Dean’s on the fifth floor,” John said, and Sam bounded to his feet, half in shock at being addressed. “He’s in surgery.”

            _Surgery_. Another blow to Sam’s fragile mentality. “How bad?”

            “We won’t know until we talk to the doctor.” John raked a hand back through his curly dark hair. “I’m gonna find Joanna.”

            Sam’s brain scrambled to align the name, and when it did he wondered why Jo Harvelle was even there; but he didn’t ask. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, go find her. I’m gonna…use the head.” Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the bathroom.

            “Don’t wander off. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

            Sam nodded, ducked through the wide brown door and studied his reflection in the row of mirrors across from the stalls. Not rippling, now, but showing him his hollowed eye-sockets, the slack downward tilt of his mouth, the scrunch of concern on his forehead.  

            He’d been so afraid to feel anything, for months, that now he felt rusty on all the things he was letting in. It was almost enough to make him want to shut down again; but he didn’t have any Masque left on him, and even if he had, the shock of what he’d done, what he’d _nearly_ done, was enough to quell any appetite he had, for Masque or anything else. Combing a hand back through his unwashed hair, Sam blew out a breath, ballooning his cheeks, then letting it out.

            “This ends right now,” He murmured to himself. “No more running. Face it, or knuckle under.”

            His reflection accepted the challenge like a mute, and Sam tugged, again, at the ends of his hair. Thoughtful, now.

            He stuck his head out into the reception area. “S’cuse me? Can I borrow a pair of scissors?”

 

-X-

 

            Sam joined John and Jo on the fifth floor with two coffees and a lighter head.

            John surveyed Sam’s chopped hair with one crinkled brow. “You cut your hair.”

            Sam flashed a smile that wasn’t really a smile at all, and handed one coffee to John, one to Jo. “How is he?”

            Jo glared at him. “Like you have any right to ask, you son of a—”

            “Joanna.” John interceded, and Sam ducked his head.

            “She’s right. I’m the last person who should be asking about Dean.” He met John’s eyes. “But I need to know.”

            John heaved a sigh. “Doctors say he has contusions on his liver, a punctured lung and a few fractures on his ribs. Few fractures on his face, too, but that’ll all heal in time. They’re more worried about his appendix. Ruptured. They gotta pull it before his belly fills up with blood.”

            Suddenly lightheaded, Sam rested his hand against the wall. The _I’m sorry, I am so sorry,_ caught in his throat.

            _This is what demons do. They ruin everything they touch_.

            “He can survive that, right?” Jo had turned her back on Sam, ignoring him entirely now.

            “Dean’s tough.” John said grimly, pulling out his phone. “I gotta call Mary and Bobby, let ’em know what’s goin’ on.”

            He moved a ways down the white-tiled corridor, and Jo rounded on Sam with murder in her eyes. Sam held up both hands.

            “I know you want to kill me. And believe me, I want the same thing.” He said. “But at least let me talk to Dean and apologize first, okay?”

            “Yeah. _If_ he makes it that far.” Jo shook her head sharply. “Do you have any idea what you just did? Dean really cares about you, he _fought_ for you, and you just—”

            “You think I don’t know that? How messed up I am? Believe me, Jo, I am… _well_ aware that I’m nine kinds of crazy.” Sam shook his head. “But that’s why I need to apologize. I need to tell Dean that this was my fault.”

            Jo folded her arms at her waist, puckering her lips, raising her eyebrows with polite disbelief. “So. That’s it? You just go back to being this perfect little monsters?”

            Sam’s ears rang with the tinny echo of the fight he’d had with Dean in the shoddy house back in Sioux Falls. The insults they’d hurled, the way Sam had tried to sever ties, right then and there; and he’d meant it. Everything he’d said, about being used, and toyed with. Standing on this side of the fight, he _still_ knew that feeling.

            But it paled in comparison to what he’d never said, what he’d been too proud and self-absorbed to atone for. What he’d been running away from, when he should have been running toward it: the family who’d taken him in.

            “It’s complicated.” Sam murmured as John reappeared, snapping the phone shut with a graying face.

            “Mary said to tell you, and I quote, that if you ever show up on our doorstep again, she’ll blast you so full of buckshot you’ll crap lead.”

            Sam swallowed. “Point taken.”

            Jo looked smug.

            John squeezed between them and headed for the elevator. “You two, come with me. We’re no good to Dean sitting here on our hands.”

            He made them both eat, even though the cafeteria food was flaccid and bland at best and Sam didn’t have anything that amounted close to an appetite. But with John eagle-eyeing him, Sam fell back into a pattern of obedience that was almost easy to embrace in the tumult of what their lives had abruptly come to.

            Sam, meeting expectation, because he didn’t care enough to do anything else. He choked down two grilled cheese sandwiches and half of a bottle of apple juice, while Jo picked over a chicken sandwich and glared daggers at him. John didn’t eat anything at all; Sam beat down the caustic part of him that was screaming _hypocrite_ , so loud Sam thought they should be able to hear him.

            When a throat cleared over his shoulder, Sam twisted around to look up at the doctor; something crumbled in his chest when the man’s face—pencil-thin moustache, small, wide eyes—dawned with recognition.

            “What’s the diagnosis, doctor?” John asked, straight to business.

            The man stripped off bloody latex gloves. “It was touch and go and he almost crashed on the table there at the end, but we’ve got him stable now, in the ICU. You should be able to see him shortly, but I expect he’ll sleep well through the night.”

            “You got his appendix out?” John pressed.

            The doctor hesitated. “Off the record? That damaged scrap of meat hardly passed for an appendix.” He nodded to each of them, then hurried out.

            “John, can I—?” Jo swung a pleading look toward him, and John nodded.

            “Call Ellen first, let her know where you are.”

            Jo pulled a slim silver phone from her pocket and followed the doctor out. Sam dropped his hands into his lap and let himself breathe through the relief of _we’ve got him stable now_. Belatedly, he realized there’d been no promise that Dean would pull through in the long run.

            “We should…we should probably give Jo some time with him,” He said awkwardly, his mind spilling over a hundred things, a hundred scenarios and possibilities and _should-have, could-have_ beens.

            “Sam.” John’s voice was quiet, and Sam looked up at him. “Mary’s pissed, and she’s got every right to be. But we’re not cutting you out, not all the way. If you head on back to your place, I’ll make sure we keep an eye on you.”

            “Don’t let me change back,” Sam fumbled over the words.

            “We’ll help you dry out. It’ll just take some planning.”

            They sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes before the hiss of opening doors brought their heads swinging up; Ellen charged in, swaying auburn hair and eyes like dark fire.

            “Where is she?”

            “Ellen, take it easy—” John got to his feet and Sam was right behind him.

            “My _daughter_ was at a League fight.” Ellen was almost breathless with fury. “After _everything_?”

            “She’s with Dean. She’s safe here.” John replied.

            “Not in a city of demons. Not in _this_ city.” Ellen cussed, perching her hands on her hips. “How could I be so _stupid_ , I _knew_ there was another reason she wanted to stop in Seattle for the night, God almighty—”

            “We’ll get her for you.” Sam said, because John looked a little lost for words. “Right, John?”

            “Yeah. I’ll bring her down,” John said.

            The receptionist in the intensive care unit steered them to Dean’s room, and they stopped in the doorway. Sam’s grilled cheese made a valiant effort to reappear all over his boots, but he swallowed it back.

            Dean was hooked up to half a dozen machines; a steady, lethargic beeping filled the room, monitoring his heart rate, and a nasal cannula hooked back over his ears, feeding oxygen into his damaged lung. Jo sat beside him, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, her hand cradling his. Dean was unresponsive to the touch.

            Sam leaned against the doorpost and studied the floor, looking anywhere but toward the bed.

            “Joanna.” John said, and she looked up, her cheeks dampened with tears. She pressed her lips into a thin line and got to her feet, moving to join them.

            “What is it?”

            “Your mother’s here, and she’s not a happy camper.”

            The heart monitor gave a sudden leap and bounded into overdrive. Three pairs of eyes swung toward it, and John’s forehead creased. “Maybe we oughta—”

            “I’ll stay with him,” Sam said quickly.

            “No, _hell_ no, you won’t.” Jo protested.

            “Not your call, Joanna. Downstairs.” John motioned with his head. “ _Now_.” He added on an aside, “Sam, I’ll be back in a minute.”

            Sam nodded, passing Jo on his way into the room without trying to catch her eye; no apology would ever be enough for her.

            Dean’s pulse was spiking when Sam sank into the chair beside the bed. He felt his heartbeat speeding up to match, from stress or by force of habit, he wasn’t sure. Every fiber in him pulled to move in step with Dean. Just like always.

            “Hey. Hey, _Dean_.” Sam shifted himself closer, laying a hand on Dean’s forehead, the way Mary had done for Sam when he was feverish. “Cool it, man. You’re gonna…give yourself a heart attack or something.”

            He blinked, taken aback and feeling a small tinge of hope when Dean’s heart rate slowed its marathon run at his touch, drifting back toward normal. Compulsively, Sam moved his thumb, rubbing it against Dean’s brow in a gentle rhythmic sweep, then taking his hand back and crossing his arms on the bedspread. It was starchy and wrinkled, nothing like their beds back in Sioux Falls.

            Sam’s throat tightened at the thought.

            “Dean…I’m sorry, man. I am so, so sorry.” He dropped his head on his arms, his eyes fixed on Dean’s face; feeling the willpower traveling through him, that if he could heal Dean, bring him back from the brink with the strength in his own body, he would give every breath he had. “You can’t quit now, Dean, not like this.”

            Seconds ticked past in the beating of Dean’s heart on the monitor, and Sam let his eyes fall shut, turning his head to one side until Dean’s knuckles brushed his scalp. A steady mantra of _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just hang in there_ , carried him toward an exhausted coma of rest.

            When John returned, both boys were asleep: Dean, his pulse steady and reassuring, and Sam with deep, sinuous breaths lifting his back. Neither of them noticed John settling with his back to the wall, prepared to sit vigil for the night.

            In the bowels of a hospital in a demon’s city, they found something like peace for the first time in months.

 

-X-

 

            When Sam woke, he was hungry for Masque.

            It was the first thing that struck him, like a blow to the side of the head, when he opened his eyes to streaming daylight. His stomach was digesting itself, and he _wanted_ , so badly he was cramping for it.

            It took him a second to realize he wasn’t in his house; he was in a hospital, and his back was sore from lying slumped over the bed. _Dean’s bed_ , and it sent an electric jolt into his gut that staunched the craving. Scrambling up and licking the fetid taste of morning breath from his chapped lips, Sam glanced toward the door.

            John was sitting with his back against the wall, hooded eyes fixed on Dean. When Sam shifted, John’s focus moved to him.

            “Sam.” He inclined his head slightly.

            Sam scrambled to his feet. “I should—I’m gonna get us some coffee.”

            “Yeah,” John creaked to his feet, his joints popping. “You do that.”

            Sam felt like a coward, stepping out as quickly as he could and sliding into the elevator. He mashed the buttons to close the doors, rubbing a hand over his face and studying his reflection in the mirror.

            He looked different, better with his hair hacked shorter again, but the emptiness in his eyes hadn’t left, and that scared him. That emptiness had almost destroyed everything that mattered.

            And he was still craving, so incredibly hungry it felt like his body was hollow and the one thing, the _only_ thing that could fill him, was Masque.

            _Wouldn’t it be better_ , his mind cajoled, _To feel nothing at all, instead of everything?  
            _  Sam took the pain of what he’d done and let it fill every lightless corner, keeping him on his feet while he retrieved the coffee, trying and failing to enjoy his but drinking it anyway. The heat scalded his esophagus and put the thirst at bay, for the time being. Sam brought the other coffee to John.

            He stopped just outside the doorway at the sound of a muffled voice. John’s voice, low and bass, murmuring: “—and when I think about the way we fought…hell, that was about the last thing we did before we came out here. Goin’ at it like cats and dogs. And that’s on me, Deano. You were right, I was runnin’. Been on the run for a real long time. And that wasn’t fair, to you, or to your mother.”

            Sam put his back to the wall, knocked dizzy by the grief on John’s tone. _We’re not grieving, Dean’s not dead._

“I’m gonna do better. Be the father you deserve, the husband Mary deserves. But you gotta get by, Dean. I can’t,” John broke off, and Sam heard him straggle in a breath. “Can’t do this one without you, son.”

            Sam’s throat burned from more than the stain of the coffee. He made an effort of walking loudly, boots slapping the linoleum floor as he swung around the corner, and John sat back from Dean’s bedside.

            “Black, no milk, two sugars, right?” Sam pressed the Styrofoam cup into John’s hands, maybe a little too eagerly.

            “Thanks.” John drank in incremental sips, his eyes still charting Dean’s face. “Doctors say there’s no change, but he’s showing increased response to stimulation.”

            “Meaning—?”

            “Meaning he’s coming out of it.” John carded a hand back through his hair. “Vitals are still stable, which is a good thing considering all the trauma.”

            John said it bluntly, without incrimination,, but Sam felt that unbearable pressure of guilt cascading over his shoulders all the same.

            They stood in silent vigilance for a moment, shoulder-to-shoulder, and Sam shut his eyes and quirked his mouth against that insatiable thirst making a reappearance. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since his last hit of Masque; that was a record for the last three weeks. Unfortunately, his body seemed to know it, and rebelled. His fingertips were tingling and his mouth was dry.

            “Sam.” John nudged him. “What’s wrong?”

            Prizing his eyes open, Sam swallowed. “Nothing. I’m good.”

            John watched him with a parental intuition that reminded Sam of a voice that had screamed, _Everyone turns their back on you_. “Right. I’m gonna talk to the doctor, you watch him, understand?”

            “Yeah, no, I’ll be here.” Sam held up one hand slightly, then dropped it against his thigh as John and his coffee swirled from the room, leaving the musky aroma of the brew hanging over the antiseptic hospital stench.

            When the door swung shut behind John, Sam blew out a breath and tossed his half-full coffee into the garbage can.

            “Recycling saves the planet, y’know.”

            Sam almost jumped out of his skin at the groggy taunt. “ _Dean_?”

            “Last time I checked.” Dean’s eyes were still closed, scrunching his forehead. “Tell me I don’t smell hospital.”

            Sam half-smiled, moving closer to the bedside and leaning his flat palms on the thin sheets. “How d’you feel?”

            “Like I got run over by a cement mixer.”

            The words socked Sam low in the gut, and he wondered how every physical pain could be numbed, and every emotional one could needle in a thousand times worse. He moved away from the bed, gripping the back of the chair to keep his hands steady. Whether he was shaking from nerves or the craving, he wasn’t sure. “Dean, I—”

            “Don’t.” Dean cut him off, studying the blanket where he was twisting it between his scuffed fingers. “Just, uh…I don’t wanna talk about it, Sam.”

            “Then don’t talk. Just listen.” Sam said firmly. “I need to get this out.”

            Dean shrugged one shoulder, wincing at the motion and tucking his ear down like it hurt, and Sam wanted to dose him full of enough painkillers so that he’d sleep off the worst of this. He wanted to trade his numbness for everything Dean was feeling.            

But he stayed, scouring the chair with his fingernails, his chin tucked against his chest. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

            “Eh. Well, bang-up job on that one.” Dean scratched at one of the butterfly bandages under his sunken, bruise-shadowed eyes.

            “Dean.” Sam said, softly. “I mean it. I know I screwed up, but I just wanted _you_ to know that…I was wrong. Every single thing I did, I was wrong.”

            “And what’s that buy us, Sam? Huh?” It was exhaustion, or a stalwart sadness, or all of the various hurts that made Dean’s voice soft, his gaze even softer, so close to slipping back into sleep. “What d’you want from me?”

            Sam pulled in a burning breath through his nostrils. “Tell me how to fix this.”

            “I don’t—” Dean pulled a vacant smile. “I don’t know if you can, Sam.”

            Sam shook his head, looking away. “You said…back in the arena, you said we were still family, Dean. Let me fix this, _please_.”

            “I’ve been thinkin’,” Dean scratched at his bandage again, then dropped his hand into his lap. “How are we supposed to go back to what we were, Sam? Huh? You’re hopped up on _something_ , I dunno what. The things we said, you don’t just take that stuff back. It’s out there, it’s _who we are_.”

            “Dean, no—listen to me—”

            “Sam.” Dean’s eyes fell shut, and Sam went quiet, watching him, feeling the rictus of grief in his chest pulling tighter. “Just…don’t, okay?” When Sam didn’t reply, Dean eased out a breath and went on, “Look, you’re right. We’re family. But I don’t think we can go back to the way things were. And right now, I need you to leave, all right? Just bail out until I figure—”

            “Is this because I’m a demon?” Sam twisted his fingers through the gap in the back of the chair. “Dean, I would’ve put myself down the day I found out, I just—”

            “Don’t say that to me. Don’t you _ever…_ say that to me.” Dean sucked in air harshly, gripping a hand against his side like his broken ribs were throwing fits. “I don’t want you _dead_ , Sam, I just…I can’t deal with this when everything else is _screaming_ in my head, okay?”

            “Okay,” Sam murmured. “Dean, I get it. And I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry for every crappy thing I did to you. Beating Lilith was the only thing I cared about and I know how screwed up I am. I do. I just wanted you to know that I’m done. With the drugs, with…everything I was doing.”

            “You really think that’s gonna make things better?” Dean asked, his voice scratchy like he’d been chain-smoking. “Sam, it’s already done. You get that? This, all this crap,” He gestured to his bandage-mottled body with one hand, “You can’t _make_ this go away. I don’t care how many times you apologize, man, the devil’s in the details. And he really worked us over.”

            “Dean, if I’m gonna beat this, I’m gonna _need_ you to back me up. Please. I can’t do this on my own.”

            Dean rolled his head sideways. “Just, uh…just take a walk, Sam, all right?”

            It was clean, succinct dismissal that wounded like a broken bone. Sam dragged a hand down his chin, pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger before he dropped his arm to his side. “Yeah, okay. Get some rest.”

            “Yeah.” Dean’s voice cracked slightly, and Sam beat a hasty retreat.

            He almost collided with John in the hall, catching the cell phone that slid from John’s grip; it was a mark of how truly distracted John was, that small sleight of hand. John was usually impossible to startle.

            “Sorry, here.” Sam dropped the phone back into John’s palm. “What did the doctor say?”

            “He wants to keep Dean under observation.” John replied curtly. “I called Bobby, he’s on his way. He’s gonna take you home. Dean and I will stick around until he gets the green light from the doc, and then we’ll head on back to Sioux Falls.”

            “You can’t…you guys can’t stay here, this is _Lusiver’s_ city!”

            “Believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do.” John’s eyes were steely with regret. “But if we move Dean right now, there’s a chance he’ll turn septic. He needs a stable, clean environment, and let’s face it, Sam, Bobby’s place isn’t exactly a mansion of hygiene. He’s better off here, for the time being.”

            Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and looked past John. “Fine, just…just stay in touch. Okay?”

            “All right.” John clapped Sam on the shoulder in passing. “You watch your back out there, Sam. There’s gonna be a lotta talk after this fight.”

            “There always is.” Sam said, turning after him. “Hey, John. Who won?”

            John stopped in the doorway of Dean’s room. “Lily was dead. It was still your fight, Sam.” He glanced back with hunted eyes. “You’re a step away from the crown.”

            Standing alone in the cold hallway under the glow of fluorescent lights, Sam wasn’t sure how much that mattered anymore.

 


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter Thirty-Six: Take Back the Light

 

            Bobby dropped Sam at his house on Main Street after a profoundly awkward car ride; Sam had the distinct feeling Mary wasn’t the only one holding a grudge, and he didn’t blame either of them. He held it against himself, too.

            He went to the warehouse, wrapped in his hoodie while the rain poured, mingling with pellets of sleet that hammered his face as he walked into the wind. Sam dumped the Masque, holding his breath so he wouldn’t have to smell it, drop after drop rolling down the grated in the side of the street. It was a constant battle with himself not to fall to his knees and lap up the brackish stains from the asphalt.

            There was something wrong with him, deep and unbalanced, and Sam wasn’t sure how to fix it, or, really, if he could. But he was going to try.

            Mostly, he tried to stay busy; not with training, not when every tug of his muscles reminded him of Dean’s bones snapping under his fists. He organized and reorganized his meager possessions. The gun he’d filched from Bobby’s house the day he’d moved out; he field-stripped it, timing himself, over and over again until his hands cramped from the constant repetitive motions. He started to patch up the house, scavenging everything he needed from other vacated buildings in town. The harder he worked, the worse his hand started to hurt; until he couldn’t deny that state of the swollen red flesh. Infected, and he still couldn’t feel it. Just a nagging itch, and nothing more.

            He was surprised the morning he woke up, facedown in his mildewed blanket, to the vibration of the phone by his head going off; it was the phone Jim Murphy had given him, and when Sam flipped it open his heart sank to his knees. He connected the call, sitting up and leaning back against the wall. “Pastor Jim?”

            “Sam.” Jim’s tone was cautiously friendly. “Pardon my language, son, but you sound like hell.”

            “Yeah. Yeah, I kinda feel like it, too.” Sam held his free hand up in front of his face; the cravings were tapering, but his body was starting to shift to other things. Shakes he couldn’t control, mostly, spidering up into his shoulders. “What’s up?”

            “I heard about Seattle.”

            Sam dropped his head, his bangs falling across his eyes. “Look, I know what you think you should do—”

            “And what’s that?”

            “You should pull your support. Stop sponsoring us.” Sam got to his feet and started pacing, just to give his jittery limbs something to do. “And I agree. I was an ass—to you, to my family—this whole time. But I’m asking you, please, don’t…don’t stop sending Bobby money. Dean’s in the hospital, we can’t—”

            “I know about Dean.” Jim interrupted, not unkindly. “My parish is paying for his hospital bills.”

            Sam’s eyes flipped wide and he stopped in his tracks. “You’re—wait, what?”

            “I’m not God and it isn’t my place to extol judgment on your family because of your choices, Sam. I’ve come to view John and Dean, at least, as friends. And in my book, it doesn’t bode well with a man to desert his friends in their darkest hour.”

            “You said, Dean and John…” Sam trailed off shamefully.

            “You haven’t been one to let me in these last few months, Sam.” Jim said. “But when I talked to John, he told me the state you were in. I wanted to make sure you were all right?”

            “Uh, honestly?” Sam blew out a breath. “I’m not good. I’m not okay at all. I know my head’s pretty scrambled right now, and I’ve got this infection on my hand with nothing to treat it—”

            “Do you need antibiotics?”

            Sam scrunched his face, confused. “I don’t get it. Why—why are you trying to help me? Everything I did went against what you believe in, right? I wasn’t some kind of hero, I was—I just played a part. And I almost got someone I care about _killed_.”

            “Pastors don’t just preach sainthood, Sam, we preach forgiveness. And I’m well aware which is more prevalent and needed in our world today.” Jim said. “You didn’t answer my question.”

            Sam hesitated “I don’t wanna bother you.”

            “Then it’s settled. Antibiotics.”

            Sam’s throat felt unusually tight. “ _Thank you_.”

            “We all need forgiveness, Sam. But I will give you a warning: you have got to change. Whatever’s happened to you, it needs to be stopped, now, while it still can be. That means doing whatever it takes.”

            “Yeah, absolutely.”

            “ _Whatever_ it takes, Sam? No matter how awful?”

            It was harder to squeeze out: “Whatever it takes.”

            “Then I’ll be in touch, if I can find you some help.”

            True to his word, Pastor Jim had a bottle of antibiotics in the container of supplies that arrived on Sam’s doorstep two days later, along with surgical sutures and a sterile needle. Sam popped two pills and slept; he didn’t have the heart to admit, even to himself, that he was too shaky to stitch his own wounds.

            The next day, he had to risk it; after worrying a splinter out of the infected cut, he knew that he couldn’t count on a physical sensation of pain to tell him when he was really in trouble. His brain was hardwired backwards.

            The cravings knocked him down at the end of the week; Sam woke with a hunger for the Masque more powerful than anything he’d ever felt, like bloodlust and starvation rolled into one. He stayed curled on his makeshift bed, eyes screwed shut, hands fisted over on his gut and trying desperately to distract himself.

            All he could think of was Lilith; how she’d used him. Let him go because the powers he’d started to manifest in increments hadn’t blossomed in the Reactor. She’d let him go back to the environment that had started his growth in the first place, and she’d poisoned it. Poisoned _him_ , manipulated him, and Sam had let it happen. Lusiver had been right; one way or another, Sam had been a puppet on a string for a long time.

            But the cost to play the demon’s game had been too high, and he was sick of being the victim. Always the victim, like a rat in a maze. Every time he ran for the exit, another wall appeared in front of him, buoying him on toward whatever endgame the master had in mind.

            Sam wanted to call Ruby; wanted to threaten her, cuss at her until he was hoarse. For ever walking into his life, for ever setting him on that fast road to nowhere in the first place. But he was afraid to dial the number, afraid he’d ask for more Masque instead. And Ruby, at Lilith’s behest, would always be welcoming. Would stroke his hair from his forehead and tell him it was all right to want things, to take them for himself.

            Sam just wanted to end the déjà-vu; wanted the Masque gone from his system. But he couldn’t throw it up, couldn’t drain it. He knew what the inevitable solution was, but his mind, and body, rebelled.

            Knowing was sometimes more terrifying than being blind.

            Five days after Bobby brought him home, Sam was ripping up every floorboard in the house, looking for a hidden flask. He stumbled out to the warehouse and threw broken, dry plastic jugs aside, hunting for one drop to chase away his emotions, to dull everything he was feeling in overwhelming force.

            He pawed and flipped and rummaged, tore apart every piece of the house that he’d put together. And finally, tucked in a baseboard of the turret, he found it.

            Sam sat with his back to the curved wall, breathing staggered, staring at the vial of Masque. It was an innocent amount, barely enough to slake his thirst, and maybe that was all he needed. A safe sip. Just a little down the hatch, not enough to strip him of everything, but just a feather light brush to dull the ache of his head and heart.

            Sam had never felt farther away from the family who’d adopted him, had never felt more alone than knowing Mary and Bobby were fifteen minutes away, and unreachable. Sam gritted his molars together, uncorked the vial with his teeth, and hesitated, again.

            His swaddled, badly-stitched hand reached almost of its own accord for the phone, speed-dialing while his eyes stayed on the murky swill.

            There were a few brief, annoying chimes. “Hullo?”

            Sam felt a thornbush sprouting in his throat. “I—this isn’t John.”

            A beat of silence. “Sam?”

            He thumped his head back against the wall. “You’re okay.”

            “Yeah, dad’s been checking in every day. What, nobody told you?”

            “Nobody’s told…I haven’t _seen_ anybody, Dean.”

            “You’re by _yourself_? What the _hell_ , Sam?” And there was hope, in that, if Dean was strong enough to be angry.

            “Mary kicked me out.” Sam swirled the contents of the vial. “And I am…sitting here, with a bottle of Masque in my hand.”

            “Masque, what the hell is that?”

            “The drug, Dean, it’s what I was hopped up on. Demon go-juice. And I think,” He swallowed, hard. “I think I’m gonna drink it.”

            “Sam, don’t you dare. Listen to me—”

            “I just wanted to tell John not to bother coming for me when he gets home.” Sam snapped the phone closed on Dean’s protests and pressed his fist to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. In the darkness behind his eyelids, an image of his own macabre reflection, of his rage all directed toward Dean, canvassed his sight. Sam’s throat heaved with a swallow, a deep breath, baring his teeth.

            He flung the vial against the wall, let the Masque spray against the floorboards, and dragged a hand back through his hair, listing sideways against the wall.

            He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep, didn’t know how long he’d been asleep until he was jolting awake, his stomach bitterly brewing with acid. His hand stung and his head whirled; peering through a shroud of darkness and weak moonlight dripping through the broken window on his left, the one he’d punched through during his fight with Dean, Sam strained to listen.

            Something clicked and thumped near the front of the house.

            He swallowed, tried to stand and took his time doing it, folding his legs under his body and slowly lurching to his feet.

            “Who’s,” He blinked rapidly, the world tipping with vertigo. “Who’s there?”

            A fist pounded the door. “Sam, open up!”

            Sam straightened, blinking. “ _Dean—?_ ”

            “Sam, _open the damn door!_ ”

            Sam almost tripped over a loose corner of his blanket, crossing to the door in a few unsteady steps and wrenching it open.

            Dressed down in his hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, Dean leaned against the doorpost. His eyes were still underscored with purple shadows and his hair was growing long in its own right, peaking above his sallow face.

            But he was here; somehow, _here_.

            “How did you—?” Sam began.

            “Dad let me check out.” Dean shrugged with his hands plunged into his pockets, moving his elbows away from his body. “Said I was cleared for takeoff.”

            “You don’t look like it.” Sam stepped back. “Dean, you look like you’re about to fall over. Come on, sit down.”

            Dean limped inside, moving like everything hurt, and Sam wasn’t fooled; the drive from Seattle to Sioux Falls wasn’t an easy or a brief one, and Sam had called him less than a day ago, judging by the way his head and body felt. Which meant Dean had checked himself out, and come all this way, because Sam had needed him.

            Sam was surprised to feel something other than gratitude or guilt; it was a rush of protectiveness that settled low in his stomach. He stuck close to Dean into the main room of the house, kicking his blankets into a more padded seat and nodding Dean over to it. Dean sat without complaint, but his eyes were on the broken vial fetched up at the joining of the floor and the opposite wall.

            Sam followed his gaze, and the shame made a return. “I didn’t drink it.”

            Dean rubbed his fingertips over his forehead. “Good for you. That makes you—what? Five days sober?” He shook his head. “DTs are gonna start soon, man.”

            “I think they already have,” Sam admitted. “But it’s slow. Bobby could probably tell you more.” He crouched on his heels in front of Dean, then splayed his legs out, linking his arms loosely around his knees. “What made you change your mind?”

            Dean sighed, rough, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t. I still owe you a serious beatdown for what happened back in Seattle.” He refused to meet Sam’s eyes, his gaze scrolling across the floor. “That can wait ’til after we get you clean.”

            “Okay. ’Cause, Dean?” Sam waited for him to look up, finally, before he added: “I need help.”

            Dean nodded with a flicker of something old and comforting deep inside his exhausted eyes. “We’ll getcha back to normal, Sam.”

            “And then what?”

            “Still workin’ on that.” Dean tipped his head back against the wall, and Sam quirked a reluctant smile.

            “Did John really check you out?”

            “Yeah, after I ripped out all the needles and got to the door.” Dean shuddered dramatically. “Friggin’ witch doctors man, seriously. Those guys had to be demons, right? Nobody’s got hands like that.”

            The thought that he’d left Dean in a hospital of demons somehow made Sam feel worse. Just another strike on his bones. “I guess.”

            An awkward silence wormed its way in.

            “How d’you feel?” Sam asked at length.

            “Like a million bucks.” Dean’s tone was sleepy. “And like I just spent nineteen hours getting tossed around in the front seat on a gut full of stitches and broken ribs. So I’m peachy.”

            The words pierced in deep, like vampire teeth. “Sorry.”

            “Yeah, you should be.” There wasn’t any force behind Dean’s words, and he shifted himself against the wall. “I oughta be whooping your ass right now.”

            “Give it a couple weeks.”

            The silence, this time, was tinged with sadness. “Think it’s gonna be more than a couple weeks, Sam.”

            His eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness, but Sam closed them anyway, waiting for his scrabbling mind to find composure before he let himself speak, “I wish I could take it back.”

            The answer was a long, drawn-out snort, and Sam cracked open one eye, then the other, blinking.

            Dean was asleep, his head tipping down to his chest, his arms guarding his damaged middle. That same sense of protectiveness flooded over Sam again, his mind making up for lost time and separation. Dean’s dogtags hung free, swinging against his chest, and that was another spark of hope on a dark horizon: that Dean’s hadn’t taken them off yet.

            Hope; because, maybe, that meant he hadn’t given up on Sam.

 

-X-

 

            “Oh, I don’t like the look of this one bit.”

            Bobby’s foreboding words greeted them on the porch at sunrise when he flung open the heavy back door. Dean leaned one elbow against the wrought-iron railing, Sam hunched behind him, folding into himself and wracking with uncontrollable shivers. That was how Dean had found him that morning when he’d come around: huddled up and vibrating like an earthquake was tossing him from the inside.

            Mary’s vendetta damned, Dean had a responsibility. Still did, after everything.

            “You gonna stand there gawkin’, or let us in?” Dean demanded, and Bobby sidestepped without a word. Dean hurried in, as much as he could when the broken ends of his ribs felt like they were grating together, and he could feel the flush of pain rising up under his skin. It took him a second to realize Sam wasn’t following; that he was still halfway down the steps, looking hollower and sweatier with every breath. “Sam, would you get in here?”

            Sam went with halting, shuffling steps, like he was waiting for Bobby to chase him off his property. Bobby didn’t, barely moved even, but Dean could see the herculean effort it cost him not to say something. Apparently, a day’s solitary car-ride wasn’t enough to say everything that needed to be said to the person who’d almost busted the insides of someone you cared about.

            “Where’s mom?” Dean asked, stopping in the kitchen and turning back to face Bobby as he squeezed through the doorway ahead of Sam.

            “Upstairs, freshening up.” Bobby’s eyes were a little filmy with tiredness. “We stayed up half the night lookin’ for you, boy.”

            “Got sidetracked.” Dean swept a glance toward Sam. “We need some help.”

            “Ya think?”

            “ _Bobby_.” Dean insisted. “Please.”

            Bobby removed his cap, scratched his receding hair, then puffed with frustration. “Balls.” He lowered himself into one of the chairs by the table with strangely sinuous grace for a man his age. “Spill the beans.”

            “Sam, tell him.” Dean didn’t try to thaw the frostiness of his tone; all of his variegated feelings toward Sam could wait until the crisis at hand was solved.

            Sam nodded methodically and focused on Bobby. “There was this demon. Ruby. She, uh—she got me hooked on something.”

            “Naw, I couldn’t _guess_.”

            Sam’s flinch was subtle, but Dean knew him well enough to catch it in the slight lift of his shoulders. “Right. So, um, it’s called Masque, and it—”

            “Masque.” Bobby cut him off, shoving onto his feet and screeching the chair backwards on the tiles. “You’re addicted to _Masque_.”

            “What, you know about that stuff?” Dean demanded.

            “Only that it was makin’ the rounds more than a _century_ ago, back when demons were still the big name in the circles that folks hunted. S’the kinda thing you hear horror stories about.” Bobby shrugged one shoulder at Dean’s incredulous look. “After you all moved in, I figgered I’d better brush up on my demon history.”

            “I thought there wasn’t any history.” Sam seemed to be making an effort to keep his teeth from chattering.

            “Not under the name of a demon, no. But there’s lore goes back decades, about these humans that are _more than human_. And if you’re this deep in on Masque and it ain’t left you a drooling mess on the floor, then that means…” Bobby trailed off, his gaze swinging from Dean to Sam and back again. “He can’t be.”

            “Blue-blooded demon, Bobby.” Sam said, and Dean felt a rush of irritation at how easily Sam admitted to it.

            “I’ll be damned. That’s what was hidin’ in there all along.” Bobby snorted softly. “Guess you weren’t Faceless after all.”

            “Wish I was,” Sam glanced at Dean with shadowed eyes. “I’d rather be that than—”

            “All right, enough, this isn’t helping.” Dean gritted his teeth around another spike of pain driving into his brain. If he’d had less of a constitution, he would’ve started purging his insides on the walk over. The morphine had worn off sometime while he’d been asleep, and he was willing to bet Bobby didn’t have any drugs that good. “How do we help him, Bobby?”

            “I got an old Hunter’s journal from back in the day, it’s where I found that intel on demons. Might be something on the Masque that I missed.”

            “Great.” Dean nodded perfunctorily. “Think you can—?”

            “Is that Dean?” The voice wafted from the stairs, and Dean and Sam exchanged a loaded glance.

            “I could hide in the fridge,” Sam said, and he sounded like he was only half-joking, his distressed gaze pinned on the doorway as Mary walked in, yanking a towel from her damp hair. She stopped at the sight of them, a tumult of emotions cascading through her eyes.

            And then, suddenly, she was moving toward Sam. “I told you not to—”

            “Mary!” Bobby caught her wrist, pulling her back.

            “What did you do to my _son_?” Mary was spitting with rage, straining against Bobby’s strong grip, and it was Dean’s turn to wince. He’d never seen that passionate fury in her eyes before, not even when Gordon had shot John.

            “ _Mary_!” Bobby repeated, more forcefully. “That kid needs help, he’s—”

            “Then he came to the wrong place!”

            “ _He’s detoxing from Masque_.”

            Mary froze like Bobby’s words had doused her with cold water. Sam was backed against the counter, shoulders turned to Mary defensively, and Dean felt an irrational stab of his own irritation. It wasn’t fair that Sam could swap out like that, go from being a cold unfeeling bastard to the same wet-eyed kid from the cage all over again. Part of Dean was convinced it was a manipulation; but there was the other part, through a dizzy kaleidoscope of pain in the arena in Seattle, that had seen the real change in Sam. The shift in his eyes, the way his expression had gone slack with horror. Not something that could be faked, not to that extent; that look had been familiar to Dean, from the time Lilith had rearranged his insides in the Reactor. The same wet, horrified eyes had stared at him then, willing him by sheer gut feeling to stay alive.

            Dean boxed that away to think about, later.

            Mary stepped back, giving herself slack in Bobby’s grip. “I thought…Masque disappeared from the smuggling world over a century ago.”

            “You read that in your fancy, _demon-manufactured_ textbooks?” Bobby asked, and Mary swung a slightly dazed look toward him. “That’s what I thought.” He released her. “I’ll go find John, and that journal. You watch the two of them.”

            The minute Bobby disappeared, Mary turned stormy eyes on Dean. He held up one hand. “Can we not do this now?”

            “You disappeared last night. No note. No warning. By the time I got up to check on you, you were already gone. You never even said _hello_.”

            “Look, dad could’ve handled it if anything went wrong—”

            “We’ll talk about this later.” Mary stabbed a finger toward him.

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            Sam grunted, and Dean turned, alerted by the sound, as Sam slid onto the floor, arms wrapped around his ribcage. “I feel like there’s something—inside me.”

            “It’s in your head, Sam.” Dean said, tiredly. “You’re not pumping black ooze, there isn’t some split personality that wants out. You’re just—projecting, or something.”

            “Actually, he ain’t.” Bobby was back already, with a dark green journal in hand and John following him, yawning and rubbing one eye. Dean didn’t know if John had slept at all through the entire stay in the hospital—how own memory was a morphine-clotted blur—and he didn’t look like he’d done much catching up last night.

            “What, you mean there’s something inside of him?” Dean demanded.

            “No, he’s pumping black ooze. That’s what Masque _is_ , Dean, it’s what makes demons look like demons to us.” Bobby slapped the journal on the table and the Winchesters crowded around him; Sam didn’t, maybe _couldn’t_ , join them. “This journal belonged to my granddaddy. Town drunk like myself and a real headcase, so I’m willin’ to bet some of this is guesswork.”

            “Lucky for us, we’ve got ourselves a real live case of the DTs to prove him right or wrong.” Dean slanted a glance toward Sam, who was taking controlled breaths, his head rocking against the cabinet behind him. Dean felt a bowels-deep rush of sympathy and compassion that he couldn’t give voice or reason too.

            “Says here there’s an awful case of the munchies coming with this.” Bobby traced the words with his finger.

            “Yeah, that’s not right.” Sam said shortly. “I haven’t been hungry for days.”

            “Is it true this drug blocks the pain receptors in your brain?” Mary asked, sounding morbidly fascinated; she was a hypocrite, too, ready to kill Sam one second and pumping him for information the next, but Dean bit his tongue.

            “That’s what Ruby said.” Sam squirmed. “Seemed like that was how it worked. During fights, I didn’t even slow down. Couldn’t feel…anything.” He curled up his right hand, swaddled with a bandage; Dean wondered but he didn’t ask.

            “Ruby?” Mary and Bobby said in harmony.

            “I’ll explain later.” John leaned over Bobby’s shoulder, hands flat on the table. “The strength, the single-mindedness—it sounds like it changes brainwaves, Mare, what d’you think?”

            Mary nodded slowly. “That’s the nature of drugs in general. But I don’t see what makes Masque so special, or why the demons are so intent on using it.”

            “S’not just what it does to your head.” Sam said. “The things I can do, the things I see, they’ve been a lot more…powerful, since I got hooked on this stuff.”

            Dean tasted something that wanted to name itself _revulsion_ , and he tempered that, too. “All right, what else?”

            Every eye shifted quickly from Sam, back to the journal. Bobby scratched his beard and underlined the next section with his finger. “Says here the detox is a real bad sonuvabitch.” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “This gets pretty graphic. Granddaddy musta had a demon he kept under watch, wrote down everything with a bottle of Jack Daniels and added in his footnotes.”

            “How bad is _bad_ , Bobby?” Dean stepped closer, trying to see over Mary’s shoulder.

            “According to him, turns the receptors back on like flippin’ a lightswitch when the poison’s out. Hurts like hell.”

            “ _Real_ ,” Sam gasped, doubling over. Dean moved by instinct, dropping to a knee beside him and heaving Sam back against the cabinets with a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up at the others.

            “So, how do we stop it?”

            Bobby shrugged, eyes distending helplessly. “Ride out the storm, see where it takes us. Or give ’im more Masque.”

            “No!” Sam’s tone was barely less than a shout. “I’m not taking another hit. It’s not...it’s not worth it.”

            “This is gonna be worse than anything you’ve ever felt, son.” Bobby said frankly. “You’ll probably wish you could give up the ghost. You wanna know what over a thousand of those pain receptors firin’ back to life is gonna feel like?”

            “Bobby!” Dean said, sharply.

            “Kid’s got a right to know what it is he’s signin’ up for!” Bobby’s tone was relentless and sharp. “That’s the kinda thing you don’t face _stoic_ , Sam. It’ll bring you down so far, you might not get back up again.”

            “I get it!” Sam insisted, and Dean could feel the muscles in Sam’s shoulder straining under his hand. He flexed his grip tighter, another force of habit. “Just let me get this over with.”

            John sounded, surprisingly, almost gentle. “You sure about this?”

            “I’m not letting anyone else get hurt for me.” Sam enunciated every word with precision, so none of them wavered.

            Bobby straightened, shaking his head. “Well, all right. We’ll take you back to your place—”

            “No. Can’t,” Sam chewed his lower lip for a second. “I’ll tear that place apart looking for a stash. I hid it everywhere. I might find some.”

            “There’s always your basement, Bobby.” Mary suggested. “We could take out the tools, so he can’t hurt himself.”

            Bobby’s acquiescing nod was brusque; he vanished, with John and Mary, around the corner and down the stairs into the basement, leaving Dean and Sam fetched up to the cabinets. Sam knotted one his fingers in the scruffy threads of his hair, the heel of one hand mashing against his forehead, the other pawing down Dean’s arm and anchoring itself in the front of Dean’s shirt. Strong fingers, the same fingers that had cracked and bruised Dean’s face days before, hunted into the folds of his clothing like a helpless child now as Sam looked for something to anchor himself through the pain; Dean swallowed a comforting, _I got you, Sammy._

Three capable pairs of hands made light work, accumulating a steady pile of old rusted tools and car parts into the corner beside the couch. Sam’s skin was turning ashen when Bobby returned, finally, grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him to his feet, and Dean rose beside him. There was a silent question, a plea in Sam’s eyes as Bobby steered him toward the basement door: _Still with me on this one, right?_

            Dean glanced away, then back, briefly, caught Sam’s curled lip, his forehead scrunching with puzzlement. _Dean?_

Bobby pulled him to a stop at the top of the stairs. “Good luck, kid.”

Sam squared his shoulders and stepped inside, silent, and Bobby slammed the door shut behind him. The lock hitting home sounded like the drop of a pin.

Mary laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder, pulling him around to face her. Dean let her wrap her arms around him, let his chin hang over her shoulder. The touch of her fingers at the nape of his neck was so comforting Dean felt like it was suffocating him.

“Oh, honey, I thought we were going to lose you.” Mary’s tone was almost childlike with vulnerability, bringing on that decades-old drive of purpose to protect her, the commandment John had instilled in him the day their family had separated.

“Yeah, pretty crazy, huh?” Dean shut his eyes.

“Don’t you ever, ever walk out like that again when you’re hurt without telling one of us first, do you understand me?”

“I hear ya. Sorry. I dunno what I was doing.”

It was a lie, and the understanding of that lingered between them. Sam had needed him, and whatever else had happened between them, Dean had a promise to keep. Winchesters didn’t break promises. If there was a next time, one way or another, Dean would be gone again.

Mary pulled back, cradling his face in her hands. “My little angel. You were brave out there.” She stroked the hair from his forehead. “Your father told me everything.”

“Eh, less brave and more stupid.” Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“You wanted to save your brother.”

That word scraped Dean raw, now, left him feeling bitter. “Guess so.”

“Hmm.” Mary scuffed her thumb over his cheekbone, then turned him around to face the study. “Couch. Now.”

She had him strip down to bare skin and bandages from the torso up, the thin layers of gauze saturated with sweat and unraveling from his restless sleep. Dean relented to her ministrations, mostly because he was too tired and too sore to do much else. Mary was gentle and methodical until the last bandage fell away and bared the entirety of the damage: stained and lumpy bruises on his ribcage, the notch where they’d inserted a stint to re-inflate his lung, the wide gash across his lower abdomen, stitched shut where they’d taken out his appendix.

“Oh, _Dean_.” Mary’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“I look fantastic, right?” Propped up on his elbows, Dean flashed her a megawatt grin; her rejoining look was splashed through with wetness that wiped the smile off of Dean’s face. “I’m okay, ma. Doc says I just gotta take it easy for a couple months.”

Mary closed her eyes for a heartbeat. “I could _kill_ him.”

“Who, the doctor?”

“ _Sam_.”

Just the name, dammit, just Sam’s _name_ shot a backlash of emotion through him. Anger and grief and hatred and he still _cared_. “Mom, unless he’s pulling a cosmic lie out of his ass, Sam’s already killing himself for this more than the rest of us are. Maybe you should lighten up on him.”

“He tried to kill my _baby_.”

“Yeah, okay, he roughed me up. You should’ve seen his face, mom, it was like—I dunno, the demons somehow convinced him we were all gonna jump ship on him. He had that noose around his neck for ages and we couldn’t figure out why? _This_ is why.” Dean gestured with one hand, direct and focused, pointing down. “He has been _sitting_ on this for God knows how long, because he thought we were gonna kick him out if we knew what he was.”

“And how do _you_ feel about that?” Mary asked.

“Now you’re _really_ sounding like a psychiatrist.”

“Humor me.”

Dean tried to snort a breath, realized that it still hurt, doing that, and when Mary caught sight of whatever spasm of pain crossed his features, she grabbed the spool of gauze and started to bind his midsection again.

            “I’m dealing,” Dean kept his eyes on her hands, giving himself time to think. “I told Sam it didn’t change anything, but—hell, ma, I dunno. He’s a _demon_.”

            “And before that, he was a monster. He was Faceless.” Mary, always the devil’s advocate, putting her personal opinions aside to help Dean sort out his own.

            “That was different. He wasn’t one of the things that got us into this whole mess in the first place.”

            “So the blame of his race decides how you relate to him?”

            “No!” Dean protested, hastily, and Mary arched an eyebrow. His face contorting with discomfort, Dean shifted on the couch. “I never said that. I just—look at what he turned into. He played right into this trap Lilith set up. The Masque, the powers, everything. He turned into some perfect little demonic soldier.”

            “But here he is, trying to get better.” Mary tipped her head toward the basement door behind them.

            “I just…I dunno if I can trust him anymore. I mean, if he fell off the wagon that fast, just because some demon chick promised him answers—”

            “Try to see it from Sam’s point of view. No matter what we did, he always felt isolated, in a way. He wanted so badly to be a part of this family, but deep down he knew he was different. Once he found out the truth, he thought we wouldn’t let him stay.”

            “Are we?” Dean asked, narrowly. “Are we letting him stay?”

            Mary sighed, finishing the wrap of bandages and taping it down with surgical adhesive. “I don’t know, Dean. I’ll have to have a talk with your father and Bobby.” She splayed a hand on the swaddle around his midsection, and Dean could feel the heat of her palm even through the layers of gauze. “My point is, Sam was at the end of his rope and he had one foot off the edge, Dean. But he stayed in, and he fought. He let his loyalty turn to obsession. In that area, yes, Sam was wrong. And don’t think I will ever, _ever_ forgive him, for what he did to you.” She laid her hand on Dean’s cheek. “But this isn’t a black-and-white issue.”

            “Look who’s talking. You were pretty scary back there, when you saw him.”

            “Sam’s not the only one who lets his emotions get the better of him, sometimes.” Mary pushed him down gently. “You need rest.”

            “Amen to that.” Dean rolled over on his side, hated the pressure it put on his ribs, squirmed over on his back again and tucked one arm behind his head, letting his eyes slide shut. “Wake me up if anything happens.”

            “I will. If you need something, have Bobby or your father get it for you.” Mary’s weight vanished from the foot of the couch, and Dean cracked one eye open.

            “Where are you goin’?”

            “To talk to Sam.”

            “Don’t kill him.”

            He drifted in and out of sleep for most of that day and the next; noticing when Mary came back upstairs, catching glimpses of John and Bobby moving through the house like ghosts, or shadows. There was a part of Dean that was surprised John hadn’t put a bullet in Sam already; then again, that same part was surprised by the naked honesty John had shown, sitting at Dean’s bedside in the hospital and confessing all his wrongs, making promises that would take a long time to come to fruition.

            For once in his life, Dean felt patient, the cabin fever gone; he was willing to let this one play out.

            The following day marked a full week since Sam had opened that flask in the arena, and Dean catapulted up on the couch to the sound of Sam’s screaming.

            Worse than the nightmares that had plagued him after the Reactor; worse than any sound Dean had heard him make under the slash of a werewolf’s claws, at the hungry human bite of a Wendigo. Sam sounded like he was being flayed alive.

            Dean threw off the blanket that somebody—Mary, probably—had tucked over him during the night and, ignoring the painful protest of his ribs, he hopped off the couch, punching the back door open and heading down the steps. Sam’s screams followed him like a shawl wrapped around his head.

 It was early morning, so early the sun was just a hazy gray stripe on the horizon, and nobody else was awake.

            But they would be, soon. And they were all just as powerless as Dean was, to help. To offer comfort, even.

            Dean retreated to Bobby’s backyard; the lean-to with its straw floor had long since been disused. There hadn’t been any traffic of monsters through the salvage yard since the Winchesters had moved in, and Dean didn’t know if Bobby regretted that, or if he was glad the money had started to pour in through a different venue.

            Dean sat beside Chelsea’s grave, the one place on Bobby’s property that he’d avoided for months. The memories were still fresh, the feelings not quite as raw but certainly just as real. Somehow, right now it was almost a bubble of unfeeling, where Sam’s cries couldn’t reach.

Dean tore a hand back through his hair, listening to the silence that was almost consuming, so absolute after the clamor from inside that it left him unbalanced. He stared at the gravestone, his thoughts in a whirl.

            Chelsea had been easy to like: a guiltless kid, in over her head. A victim of her circumstances, but still innocent. Kind of like Sam, in the beginning.  But Sam had chosen his own dark road to walk down, and Dean couldn’t reconcile it. Couldn’t find the man inside the monster, anymore.

            But that dragged him right back down the line, to his conversation with Maggie Robertson in the mini-mart. The way she’d challenged him about what made a monster, a monster. And hadn’t Sam defined himself through his actions, set himself on the line opposite from Dean?

            It should’ve been that simple; but his brain kept circling around to something Bill Harvelle had told him dozens of times over the years, when Dean had insisted he was too tired to keep training:

_It isn’t falling down that makes a man. Whether or not he’s got the guts to get back up—that’s when you know what he’s made of._

Deep down, Dean was rebelling; he wanted to hold a grudge, notch a chip into his shoulder. He wanted to ostracize Sam for the rest of their lives. Payback was a tough broad, and Dean was used to selling her out in spades.

But that couldn’t erase the memory of a hand on his forehead, of a broken bottle of Masque and Sam willing to take on the worst pain of his life to get clean. He’d watched Jo forgive Bill every time he went sober, and still be there with painkillers when he drank himself to a headache two weeks later. He’d seen Mary take John back, after every fight, every cutting word, every promise to the contrary.

Sam had chosen to be a monster; and now he was choosing to be something better, something more than the sum of his lineage.

The ball was in Dean’s court: whether or not he’d choose to be human.

 

-X-

 

The basement was dank and dark and smelled like old sweat and engine oil.

There was a mattress shoved against one wall, moth-eaten and draped with a wool blanket, most likely laid out for his benefit. The walls had been stripped mostly bare; Sam didn’t think he could do much damage to himself with a cork board.

He explored, for the first half hour after Bobby locked the door behind him with a very final _click_. There wasn’t much to see, a room long and tall with no other exits and no objects inside of any real consequence. Sam had watched them carry toolboxes and old car parts up, stashing them somewhere else in the house. Nothing sharp or jagged that he could cut himself on.

Sam didn’t know what they were expecting, but it didn’t bode well in his gut.

Eventually, the shaking in his extremities became less a nuisance and more a problem. Sam could barely walk straight; he submitted himself to it and sank on the mattress, trying to fold in on himself to stop the quaking. His body was begging, _screaming_ for Masque; but Bobby’s clinical recitation of the drug’s effects only served to solidify Sam’s resolve.

He was done poisoning himself.

When the door opened at the top of the stairs, Sam felt a brief lightning flash of hope that it was Dean; less disappointed and more nervous when he saw Mary’s slender legs appear through the railing, Sam tried to make himself more presentable. He sat up straighter, shook his hair back from his eyes.

“Hi, Sam.” Mary said as her feet touched down on the concrete floor.

“Hi,” Sam’s voice was quiet, scratchy. He cleared his throat. “What’re you doing down here?”

“I came to see you.” Mary’s tone was matter-of-fact as she joined him, standing over the mattress. “Mind if I sit?”

“No, go ahead.” Sam scooted over and Mary sank down gracefully beside him, folding her legs Indian-style. Sam studied his hands, his shaking, unsteady hands. “I guess you must be pretty pissed at me, huh?”

“That’s a general understatement.” Mary’s tone was still all business, not a trace of warmth or of cold. Just level.

“That’s okay. I’m pretty…pissed at myself.” Sam let out a single breathless chuckle, then rocked his head back against the wall. “I’d take it back. If I could. I’d kick Ruby to the curb and never find out what I am.”

“That’s a destructive pattern of thinking, Sam. You can drive yourself crazy wondering what might’ve been, if you’d just known _this_ or done _that_. And it buys you _nothing_ but a broken heart at the end of the day.”

Sam felt a flush of fire racing up his throat, and he choked against it, wondering if that was just the start, just the tip of the iceberg of pain that was waiting for him. “I just wanna fix this.”

Mary was quiet, for a moment. “Sam, I was raised a Hunter, like Dean. We’re trained to see the world without shades of gray. And that makes us strong. But also makes us _pretty_ obsessive.”

“ _Not like this_.” Sam rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, his face dewing with sweat as he fought to repress the shivers. “I’m a freak.”

“No, Sam, you’re _not_.” Mary rebuffed firmly. “I’ve seen what fear does to good people. It turns them into monsters. And that’s something I have a hard time forgiving you for. You hurt my son. Not just at the arena, but for months before that.”

“And this is supposed to make me feel better?” Sam asked, bleakly.

“I understand how you feel, Sam.” Mary went on like he hadn’t spoken. “I lost both of my parents. They were my family. And then I lost John. Sometimes I used to lie awake and think of all the things I would’ve done differently, if it meant we would still be together. But the truth is, we can’t change the past. We atone, we move on. That’s how Hunters survive.”

“How did you do it?” Sam asked, sliding a wet-eyed glance her way. “It feels like—it feels like it’s gonna _kill_ me.”

“Hunters understand that it won’t be easy. That you can’t always win, you can’t save everyone. We understand that there are going to be hard choices, every single day of our lives. But we don’t let that stop us. We keep our heads down, we press on, and we do what it takes to get the job done.”

“I’m not a Hunter, though.” Sam rattled a breath. “I’m a _demon_.” The more he said it, the deeper it sank in and the more it felt like a curse.

“Then be the first,” Mary reached over, rested a hand on Sam’s cheek and shifted herself closer to him, her forehead resting against the hollow of his temple. “Sam, be the first demon to decide he can be something better than his circumstances.”

Sam lost track of time, after that; bits and pieces fell through the cracks. Mary vanished, and he wasn’t sure where she’d gone or if she was coming back. He wandered in circles through the basement, the shakes worsening, but somehow the hunger for Masque started to diminish again. It was the sole beacon of relief in the whole affair, and it gave him enough lethargy in absence to allow him sleep.

Not for long; Sam woke in a puddle of his own vomit with the feeling of every bone in his body being pulverized.

The receptors under his skin were firing back to life in clusters, shooting phantom pains through every inch of his body. Some part of his brain, at first, registered that he wasn’t being wounded; that he was catching up on months of old injuries that had already healed. Beyond that, there was a pressure in his teeth, like the worst headcold of his life, and he had a second to be thankful there weren’t any crowbars around; he was tempted to take his own fingernails to his gums to relieve the strain.

And then the fire consumed him, and he didn’t know anything anymore.

Some part of him was conscious of the fact that he was screaming, screaming himself hoarse, screaming so loud and so hard it burst the blood vessels in his eyes and ripped his throat into tatters. When he threw up, he threw up blood with the mucous and bile. He was swimming in his own sick, his body a contracted coil, fingers twisting into the blanket. He writhed, trying to escape a feeling like Lusiver’s knives whipping under his skin, searching the farthest reaches under one tiny flap to sever the cords of muscle beneath.

There was a moment of reprieve after years, decades, centuries of torture. Sam lay on his back, utterly dehydrated, wheezing for breath as the sensations sank from cacophonic to a muted orchestra under his skin. Tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes, Sam lay flat on the mattress; terrified to move, terrified to set himself off again.

God, he was thirsty; so thirsty for water, his skin and his ruined throat sapped dry.

The next wave hit him like an avalanche and Sam’s head wrenched back, his body arching off the mattress. He didn’t scream—didn’t have any strength left to scream, anymore—but his chest thrummed with agonized sounds, grunts and softer cries, until he realized he was begging; throwing pleas to an empty room.

“Guys—please, _please help me, please_! Oh, God— _help me_!”

They could’ve left, and the thought struck Sam like another blow. They could’ve abandoned him to his fate, and it was no more than he deserved.

Sam folded in on himself sideways, burrowing his head against his arm. His nose and eyes streamed freely, his stomach clenching and battering against his throat until he gave it release and vomited, again, staining his shirt and his wrist and his hair.

The day was like that, the endless, anguished day. Sam flipped and thrashed on the altar of the musty mattress, a sacrifice for his own sins. The pain never abated for more than two minutes at a time, and it was every torture he’d ever known being visited on him all at once. It was a knife biting down his vertebrae, one at a time; it was a hand plunging under his skin, squeezing his heart until it burst. Sam tasted the toxins of his own blood, and understood why no other demon had ever come back from this.

It was going to kill him.

Sam was shivering, lying on his side on the freezing concrete of Bobby’s basement floor, when he heard the door creak overhead. At first he thought he was hallucinating it; in fits and bursts, he’d hallucinated other things. Thought he’d seen Azazel lurking under the stairs, Lusiver prowling the corners. Once, catching a glimpse of platinum blond hair, he’d been convinced Lilith was sitting at the top of the landing, calling abuse down on him.

It wasn’t a demon that came for him this time; it was a slow, hesitating walk, something cautious of every jarring footfall.

When he tilted his gaze up to meet Dean’s eyes, Sam managed to speak, for the first time in hours, for the first time since he’d stopped calling for help: “ _No_.”

Sam rolled onto his belly and tried to crawl away, and Dean moved, surprisingly fast for somebody in his condition; his hand anchored itself to Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam, stop, dammit!”

“Let me _go_!” Sam rolled weakly onto his side, tried to break Dean’s grip. “I don’t want you to see this!”

“Too bad, it’s not your call!” Dean’s face was broken with a sheen of sweat as he tugged Sam up into a generally vertical position.

“You can’t help me, Dean, just let it go!” It sapped every lingering ounce of Sam’s strength to keep his head up. His chin rested on Dean’s fist, tangled in the putrid collar of Sam’s shirt. “It’s over, just stop. Please, just _stop_ , all right? I don’t want you to see me—”

“Tough.” Dean said, no room for argument, and Sam’s protest was cut off by the next round of abuse. His body spasmed, pummeled by the awakening of the pain receptors, and he swayed in Dean’s grip, biting his tongue hard enough to bleed just to keep from screaming.

Dean dragged him toward the wall, two wounded soldiers in a foxhole, and he did something he’d only done, once, before. He folded his arms around Sam, pinned him down with Sam’s back to his chest.

“Sammy, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, pal, I’m right here. _Right here_.” Dean guided Sam’s hand to Sam’s heart, its pace out of control. “Just keep this beating, and we are gonna fix it. All right? We can still fix this.”

Sam slammed his flat palms to the floor on either side of Dean’s knees and gagged, gagged until his throat was folding in on itself, and Dean’s grip didn’t go slack even once.

“Why—are you even—down here?” Sam panted.

“’Cause you’re still the closest thing I have to a brother.” Dean latched onto Sam’s wrist. “Let me see that hand.”

Sam let him, let Dean’s fingers worry loose the bandage while he rested and rallied what little strength he could, between bouts. Dean’s thumb traced the haphazard stitches, and he snorted.

“Who taught you battlefield triage, Sam? It looks like you went after this thing with a broken sewing machine.”

“Bite me.” Sam’s teeth chattered.

“Sorry, sweat and puke aren’t exactly on my list of favorite flavors.” Dean snarked. “Don’t worry, I’ll get mom to stitch this back up when you’re clean.”

Sam felt like that day would never come. But at least he had Dean, and that was enough to keep him sane. He’d stay down here drying out forever if it could somehow bridge the gap between them.

“Sam. Breathe, dude.”

Sam breathed.

“You’re gonna be fine. You’re too much of a pain in the ass to die.”

It didn’t matter to him, right now, if he lived or died. All Sam knew was that he didn’t want Dean to leave him alone again.

Dean started humming,some song Sam didn’t have a name for. Sam slumped in Dean’s grip, his forehead touching his knees, and waited for his body to wring itself dry.

 

-X-

 

Dean didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep; but he came awake, abruptly, eyes flipping open when he felt something soft and warm descending on him.

He was still in the basement; Sam was beside him, now, he’d been exhausted but stable enough for Dean to let him loose after a few hours of just sitting there, asses numb on the spring-coil, neither of them moving. Sam was asleep, too, completely spent from the detox, his head on Dean’s shoulder.

Mary was crouched in front of them in the semi-darkness, light pooling down the steps from the kitchen. Her hand still rested on the blanket she’d draped over Dean’s lap. “How is he?”

“Drool-y.” Dean complained, keep his voice pitched low. “I think he’s been out for a while, though.”

“Well, it’s been forty-eight hours. He may be through the worst of it.” Mary touched two fingers to the side of Sam’s neck, and Dean felt a brief surge of panic when Sam didn’t even stir at the contact. “His heart is racing.” Mary’s eyes flashed with sympathy in the darkness. “He’ll be weak, Dean. Very weak, for a long time. He may never gain back the kind of strength he had before.”

Dean wasn’t surprised, but it still left him feeling drained, like he’d been the one battling phantoms in his own body. “I’m taking him upstairs.”

Mary hesitated. “He may have another fit—”

“I don’t care.” Dean interrupted. “He’s done.”

“Then at least let your father help.”

“I’ll get him.” Dean insisted. “He ain’t heavy.”

Mary studied him for a moment, testing his mettle with a glance, and then she nodded faintly. “I’ll make sure he has a place to sleep.”

When she was gone, Dean jostled Sam with his shoulder. “Hey. Sam. Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”

Sam finally picked his head up, blinking drowsily. “What’s up…?”

“Time to get you someplace comfier. It’s past bedtime for snockered little Sammys.”

“Not drunk, Dean, just tired.” Sam’s eyes started to drift shut again.

“I know, Sam, I know.” Dean stood, giving Sam’s arm an insistent pull until Sam couldn’t ignore him, and had to unfold to his feet. Sam was staggering blearily, still coated in his own vomit. He smelled rank, and Dean wrinkled his nose. “Dude, you are one sight for sore eyes.”

Sam’s headed nodded listlessly, chin dipping to his chest.

“Whoa, easy, there, cowboy.” Dean braced a hand on Sam’s back, steadying him, then pulling Sam’s arm over his shoulders. “One step at a time, huh?”

It took them an inordinately long time to make it up to the second floor; Sam was almost deadweight, but he made some effort to shuffle his feet. Dean’s midsection was a riot of different hurts by the time they made it to the hallway, meeting Mary outside the bedroom door.

Dean dumped Sam unceremoniously onto his bed in the guest room, glancing at Mary over one shoulder as she hovered in the doorway. “I got this, mom.”

Mary’s face softened. “I know you do.”

She disappeared, hopefully to scrounge up some painkillers. Dean yanked the blanket up to Sam’s shoulders. “Cozy enough for ya?”

“Dean.” Sam’s tone was so serious, Dean felt a rush of vigilance chasing out his own hazy fatigue. “We need to move.”

“Oh, you’re not goin’ _anywhere_ , Sam.”

“Ruby knows where we are. _Dean_. She’ll come looking for me.” Sam snagged the front of Dean’s shirt, dragging himself up into a sitting position, their faces inches apart. “Dean, we need to _go_.”

“Not until you’re back up and running with all engines on _go_.” Dean peeled Sam’s hand off his shirt. “Sam, trust me, she can’t get us in here.”

“She’ll call me out. Like…like a siren.” Sam’s eyes slid out of focus, fluttered shut, then sprang open, his gaze flicking rapidly over Dean’s face. After a few seconds, it turned uncomfortable.

“Sam, what’re you doing?”

            “You have a lotta freckles.”

            “Good grief, you’re such a damn _girl_ sometimes.” Dean shoved Sam back down on the bed, gently. “Get some sleep.”

            “Promise you won’t go anywhere.” Sam pleaded, and that innocence was back in his tone, back in his eyes. “Dean? Promise me.”

            Dean wondered if it was guilt, or grief, or the side-effects of the detox that made Sam clingy. “I’m staying right here, Sammy.”

            Sam’s eyes hooded, and he rolled onto his stomach. “’Kay. What about Ruby…?” Sam yawned, burying his face in the pillow. His voice tapered, and he was deep-breathing asleep in seconds.

            “That bitch isn’t gettin’ near you, kiddo.” Dean murmured. “Trust me.”

            It didn’t take him long to pack his duffle with weapons from Bobby’s collection, even with his ribs throbbing. Dean raided the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, grabbing a bottle of Vicodin and giving it a shake; it rattled to satisfaction and Dean popped one, shoving the bottle into the duffle with the collage of knives and guns.

            He didn’t know how to kill a demon, or if you even could without the Colt; but he had a feeling it’d be damn hard for them to move around with their limbs hacked off. And Dean knew a thing or two about pain.

            The downstairs was quiet, Bobby fast asleep on the couch; Dean treaded softly past him and out to safety, pausing on the porch for one last glance inside.

            This was stupid, and he knew it. He wasn’t even sure where to start.

            But he knew scared when he saw it; he knew Sam had been downright terrified at the thought of crossing paths with Ruby again. Bad blood or not, nobody was going to make Sam look like that, feel like that, as long as Dean was around.

Dean stepped out into the night and closed the door softly behind him.

 

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Paying Your Dues

 

            Dean came back two days later with blood on his hands.

            Nobody asked; in a family of Hunters, sometimes there were causalities that you never talked about, things you drowned under pints of bourbon or whiskey, cases that woke you in cold sweat in the middle of the night. So when he walked in on John and Bobby eating pancakes and his front was showered with blood, Dean just stopped and waited for the typhoon that never came.

            “You leave a mess?” John asked.

            “No, sir.”

            John jerked his chin to the stairs. “Clean up before your mother sees you.”

            And that was the extent of it; Dean was grateful for that much. The Vicodin had taken the edge off his pain while he was on the road, tracking Ruby from the warehouse in town to her demonic nest, but what he really needed was a few days off his feet.

            Dean showered off the blood that had caked under his fingernails and matted itself in his hair, changing into sweatpants and a beater and wadding up his stained shirt and jeans. Those would be easy enough to clean; a few runs through the washing machine and they’d be good as new.

            The things he’d done would remain, phantom stains on his skin, where no one else could see them.

            Dean had loaded his clothes into the washer and was shaking out his shirt for examination when a throat cleared behind him. Dropping his hands to the rim of the humming machine, Dean slanted a look over his shoulder.

            Sam stood with his fingers gripping the top of the doorframe, leaning slightly forward with his free hand balanced on his waist. “Did I miss something?”

            “Party of the century.” Dean tossed the shirt in and banged the lid shut, hitting the button to start the cycle. “Man, you shoulda seen the rack on the hostess—”

            “You weren’t there when I woke up.” Sam said, quietly, and there was more to it than just that; Dean knew it. _I needed you and you left_.

            “Ah, sorry. Had some stuff I needed to take care of.” _Right back at ya_.

            Sam sniffed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.“S’my first day out of bed.” When Dean arched an eyebrow, Sam added, “Yeah, I mean, got my own clothes on and everything.”

            “It’s the little things.” Dean squeezed out of the laundry room around Sam, clicking the light off. “Guess that means you turned a corner, huh?”          

            Sam fell into step with him. “I’m…I’m fine, actually. No shakes, no cravings, no…pain.” His face twisted slightly. “I guess I paid my dues or something.”

            “Yeah, right, _or something_.”

            “Dean, seriously, I’m okay. I think it’s over.”

            “No, Sam, listen to me, it’s not over.” Dean stepped into his path, laying a hand on Sam’s chest to stop him. “ _This_ isn’t fixed.” He gestured between the two of them. “And you can’t actually expect me to believe it’s that easy.” When Sam’s eyebrows angled down with vivid remorse, Dean’s lips parted and he cocked his head back. “What, you get hopped up on this Masque stuff, tailspin for a couple months, and after one week of detox, we’re back to being _brothers_ or something?”

            “No, Dean, of course not. I know it’s not that simple.”

            “Then what’s with the buddy-buddy act, huh?”

            “I’m _trying_ to get clean. I am. I just…” Sam ran a hand back through his hair and shrugged slowly. “It’s gonna take some time for me to be really okay, I mean, back to where I was before. I thought we were on the same page, here. I mean, you did come downstairs and find me.”

            “Well, I’m a stupid bastard.” Dean headed for the stairs and this time Sam leap-frogged him, blocking his way.

            “Then I gotta ask you, is this…really the right time to be smart?” Sam was hedging his words, his tone careful, eyes speaking volumes. “I’m not…exactly the easiest guy to get along with, I know that, but I kinda need you on this one, Dean.”

            “You keep sayin’ that. But where was the whole family bonding thing when you were sucking down poison, Sam, huh? Y’know, I really get the feeling this is just a convenience thing for you?”

            “It’s _not_.” Sam sounded weary, faintly exasperated.

            “Hey, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck—” Dean tried to push past him and Sam grabbed his arm, thrusting him back. Dean’s mind snapped a quick rebound to Seattle, and he stiffened. “Hands off the merchandise, Sam.”

            Sam didn’t let go. “How many times do you want me to say I’m sorry, Dean? I’ll say it until I’m blue in the face. I need you to tell me what you want from me.”

            “Back to this, huh?”

            Sam’s forehead scrunched with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

            “You’re either our guy or you’re their guy, Sam. When are you gonna sack up and be your own man?”

            “I tried to be! That’s what got us into this mess in the first place!”

            “No, you lettin’ Ruby manipulate you six ways from Sunday, _that_ was what got us into this. And that’s my whole _point_ , man. You gotta stop bending over and taking it from every side, and decide you got your own thing to fight for.”

            When he moved for the stairs, Sam let him pass the time. His quiet voice stopped Dean two steps down: “What do you think I’m trying to do, here?”

            Dean checked his stride, up. “What?”

            Sam leaned his crossed arms on the banister, his hair flopping over his forehead. “I can’t just fight for myself, Dean. What the hell’s the point?”

            They regarded one another in silence, and Dean felt threads of understanding reaching out, trying to breach the gap, reconnecting him to Sam. “You know this is the most screwed up— _this_ —in the history of _ever_ , right?” He snapped.

            Sam puffed a sigh. “Tell me about it.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. “Hey, Dean, where were you the last two days?”

            Dean spread his arms slightly. “Guy’s gotta have his secrets.” He turned back for the stairs. “C’mon, I smelled pie earlier, I bet Bobby’s cooking someth—”

            A heavy _thump_ brought his head swinging around as Sam collapsed at the top of the landing in a tangled sprawl of long limbs and shaggy hair.

            “Oh, crap—Sam!” Dean took the stairs back to the top two at a time with bowlegged strides, crouching on the step next to Sam’s head and finding Sam’s pulse with his fingertips: steady, strong. He sat back on his heels, bewildered. “Dude, what the hell?”

            Sam revived in seconds, his eyes fluttering open, and he scooped his head up, his arms braced under his body. “Dean.”

            “Seriously, what the hell?” Dean said, for Sam’s benefit this time.

            Sam blinked, his mouth crinkling. “Did I just—?” He hesitated. “Pass out?”

            “That, or you’re practicing hardcore for some vaudevillian drama.”

            “Didn’t know you were into plays.” Sam stretched out a hand and Dean straightened, hauling Sam up beside him.

            “I’m not. Shut up.” He steadied Sam with a hand on his chest. “You good?”

            “Yeah, I dunno what the hell that was.” Sam’s eyes rolled briefly and he squinted, rubbing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Agh. God, I just got a—really bad—” He shook his head and focused on Dean. “Pie?”

            “Okay, geekboy. Let’s get some food in you before you turn into a bat or something freaky like that.” Dean led the way downstairs, moving much more slowly this time, letting Sam trail close on his heels.

            “People don’t turn into bats, Dean. Takes a special breed of Shapeshifter to do that.” Sam seemed happy to move back into the familiar pattern of trading verbal jabs. Dean didn’t comment on how Sam had grouped himself by omission with _people_ , with _humans_.

            “All I’m sayin’ is, you’ve done weirder.” Dean shot back as the smell of cherry rhubarb pie reached from the kitchen to welcome them in. Bobby and John were gone, the journal still lying open on the table.

            Sam stopped in the doorway, yawning and scratching the back of his neck. “Think you can cut me a slice?”

            “Do I look like a damn butler?” Dean complained, but he went anyway, pulling the warm pie out of the oven and cutting them each a piece. He plopped the slices onto plates, staining white porcelain with stripes of purple and red, and joined Sam at the table, sliding the plate toward him. Sam dropped his hands from where he’d been rubbing his temples, and picked up the fork that Dean had stabbed triumphantly into the crust of the pie.

            “Thanks.” Sam pushed a few of the cherry chunks around the plate. “Dean, I wanted to say that I’m sorry for—”

            “Do we have to do this right now?” Dean interrupted. “Seriously, Sam, I just wanna enjoy some pie.”

            “I know. It’s not about Seattle.” Sam said. “Before that. When we were at the house. I said some…pretty awful things to you, Dean. And I didn’t mean that.”

            “Oh, you didn’t?”

            “No.” Sam said, almost too quickly, and Dean gave him a patented look of disbelief. Sam swayed his head. “Okay, all right, so I kind of meant it. But you know how screwed up I was. I was trying to talk myself into it.”

            “Apology accepted.” Dean pointed his fork to Sam’s plate. “ _Eat_.”

            Sam ducked his head obediently, spearing a few wayward cherry halves and tugging them off the tines of the fork with his teeth. Dean focused again on his own pie, making an effort to shut down the part of him that was worn to the bone by all the things they’d suffered through over the last few weeks. He’d never expected this kind of war inside the Leagues.

            Sam dropped his fork suddenly, the clatter of silver on porcelain bringing Dean’s focus back. Sam was licking his lips in slow sweeps, his hands braced on the tabletop, gaze darting intently.

            “What? Burned rhubarb or something?” Dean asked.

            “I don’t…” Sam trailed off, and when his eyes rose, slowly, to Dean’s, they were overbright. “I can’t taste anything.”

            Dean stared at him. “S’probably whatever’s in this stuff. Bobby’s not exactly a pie-master.” He shoved his chair back and walked to the fridge, grabbing a beer and tossing it to Sam. “Bottoms-up.”

            Sam thumbed the tab off and guzzled half the bottle in one swallow. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, cocked his head, then turned his gaze back on Dean. “Nothing.”

            They tried a bite of everything in Bobby’s fridge that wasn’t expired: ravioli, leeks, potato-onion soup, ham-and-egg breakfast wraps. Everything was met with the same blank-eyed shrug from Sam.

            Fifteen minutes later Dean dropped back into his chair, his own appetite long since forgotten. “Holy crap.”

            “Guess I didn’t pay all my dues yet, huh?” Sam took another bite of cold pie, chewed robotically, and swallowed. “It could be worse, Dean.”

            And they should’ve seen that for the jinx it was.

 

-X-

 

            “I need your help with something.”

            Dean approached Sam the day after they found out that Sam’s taste buds had essentially malfunctioned; even Mary couldn’t find a reason for it, just one more nasty affect they had to attribute to Masque. Sam had taken that one with almost stoic complacency, but he was moping. Dean knew Sam’s moping face with an intimacy that didn’t necessarily speak well to Sam’s frequent state of mind.

            Sprawled on his back on Bobby’s couch, Sam sat up from the book he was reading, massaging his furrowed brow. “My help with what?”

            “Car stuff. C’mon.”

            They were closing in quickly on winter, not to mention on the fight in Nashville that was as good as forgotten. There was no possible way they could enter it now, and they all knew it; Sam’s detox had taken half the life out of him. It was stowed away with all the regrets and swallowed words, bits of broken glass brushed under the rug where no one could see them. But the sting of cold weather brought on the memories of better times; of Sam’s first Christmas with them, a whole season, really, of firsts.

            “Ever miss how things were?” Dean asked as they walked side-by-side toward his truck. Sam squinted against the cold, blustery autumn wind. “Y’know, back when we were just doing Prelims every week?”

            “You mean when I got my ass kicked. Over and over again.” Sam’s response was almost automatic, tagged with a lethargic shake of his head. “I guess I kinda do.”

            “Hn.” Dean grunted, popping the lid of the truck. “All right, when I took this thing out for a spin the other day, I noticed it was rattling like something was loose. Can you see anything?”

            Hands jammed in his pockets, Sam raised his eyebrows. “Dean, I know pretty much jack squat about cars.”

            “Humor me.”

            Sam sighed, then seemed to buckle down, spreading his grip wide on the edge of the cab and leaning his head under the roof. “I dunno, everything looks kosher to me.”

            “Okay, then get your hands dirty.” Dean prompted him. “Dive in, find out what’s wrong. Feel her up, she’s not gonna bite.”

            Sam’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile and he rolled his eyes, but when he turned his attention back to the truck Dean could see his interest pique. Sam tilted his head and ducked deeper under the hood, thumbing one of the knobs on the engine mount.

            “It feels kinda loose.”

            “Loose bolt on an engine mount. All right, easy fix.” Dean sniffed, crinkling his nose. “You mind bringin’ me a wrench?”

            “Which one?”

            “Just bring the whole toolbox.”

            Sam was back in seconds with the faithful, rectangular fire-engine-red case from Bobby’s shed. Dean rooted around for the wrench of appropriate size and motioned Sam to watch him work while he tightened the loose bolt. Wedged almost to his hips under the hood, Sam crossed his arms and fixed his gaze on Dean’s quick, decisive twists tightening the nut back into place.

            “What’s with the crash course?”

            “You looked pretty mopey in there. Figured I’d give you something to do.”

            “Dean, you don’t have to babysit me. I mean it, I’m _fine_.” Sam scraped at his forehead with his fingertips again. “It’s just a lot to go over, with everything that’s happened. Things aren’t exactly easy.”

            “Yeah, tell me about it.” Dean had been on a steady diet of Vicodin for three days and it still barely took the edge off his pain. “Is it just me, or are the parents making themselves scarce?”

            “You didn’t hear them going at it last night?”

            Dean straightened up so fast he banged his head on the cab’s ceiling. “ _What_?”

            Sam held up both hands, laughter sparking in his eyes. “Dean, I thought you _knew_. They weren’t exactly being quiet about it.”

            “Wait, mom and dad are doin’ the dirty—since _when_?” Dean rubbed accusingly at the welt on his head.

            “Since a _while_ , apparently, if they can do it with _us_ in the house.”

            “Holy crap. Now I’m thinkin’ about parent sex. Thanks, Sam, that’s really gross.”

            “Don’t mention it.” Sam chuckled.

            Dean tossed the wrench into the box and brushed his hands clean, fishing out the keys and lobbing them to Sam. “Give her some juice, let’s see if that tuner cleared things up.”

            “Yeah, sure.” Sam popped the driver’s side door and climbed in, and Dean banged the hood shut, wiping his wrist on his forehead.

            He’d had his suspicions for a while that John and Mary had turned a corner in their relationship; but knowing they were back to sleeping with each other was a bigger step than he’d really been anticipating. Sharing a bed was one thing. _Sex_ crossed a line.

            Sex meant they were probably staying.

            Dean didn’t realize there’d been a knot in his chest all this time, until it loosened, suddenly, and he could breathe again. If Mary was letting John in that close, then she wasn’t going to back out on him; she’d accepted the dangers, all the ramifications of the life, and decided sticking together as a family meant more than the scars on the surface or the past they’d all been wearing like a shroud, and brandishing as a weapon, for months bleeding into months.

            Dean watched Sam crank the engine, the truck roaring to life—mercifully, without any rattling or clunking, this time. Just like that, a quick fix.

            He committed Mary’s point of view to memory, trying to see the world the way she had to be seeing it, if she was willing to stay.

            Things were a lot more hopeful from that angle.

            “Okay, we’re good!” Dean motioned with his hand and Sam cranked the keys out, held them up and gave them a rattle; there was a reminder, there, subtly, of everything they’d overcome together, working as a team. How that sound didn’t even cause Sam to hesitate as he jumped out of the cab.

            “It works.” Sam smiled.

            “Yup, hole in one. Glad it wasn’t something worse—Sam?”

            Sam had stopped, one hand on the arch of the front tire’s hub, the heel of the other mashing against his eyes. His face was a contorted rictus of pain.

            “ _Sam_?” Dean prompted.

            “Agh, yeah, it’s my head.” Sam put his back to the truck and slid down on the ground, his hands tying into his hair. Dean crouched beside him, gripping Sam by his upper arms, giving him a shake.

            “Sam—Sam, hey!”

            Sam’s body went taut like a wire stretched tight at Dean’s touch, and then he slumped, boneless, the weight of him almost dragging Dean off balance to the side.

            “Not happening—Sam, heads up!” Dean hauled him into a sitting position again. “Trip to Neverland’s not in the cards, Peter Pan, c’mon.” He bolstered Sam back against the truck, holding him there with one hand on his chest, the other gripping the side of his face. “ _Sam_!”

            Sleepy hazel eyes flickered, sliding open. Sam’s pupils were dilated to near-total black, eclipsing his irises. “Ow.”

            “Your head?” Dean asked with efficient brevity, and Sam nodded. “Ah, hell, Sam, what’s going on with you?”

            Sam kneaded at his skull with lazy fingers. “S’what I deserve.”

            Dean caught his wrist, shoving Sam’s hand against the ground. “Don’t start with that _paying my dues_ crap. I’m the only one who gets to kick your ass. Not Karma, not the universe, _nothing_. You hear me?”

            Sam nodded sluggishly. “Dean?”

            “Yeah, kiddo?”

            “M’tired.”

            “I know you are.” Dean was tired, too; and as much as he loved Bobby Singer in all his cantankerous glory, Dean missed Kansas. Missed easier times when the world revolved around his family, and not much else. “Hey. Wonder what Gordon’s up to. We haven’t heard from that son of a bitch in a while.” It wasn’t, really, the best method of distraction from Sam’s ailments, to bring up their only enemy that wasn’t superhuman, that didn’t need a special weapon or a precise blow to be stopped; but it was the easiest.

            “Maybe he’s looking for another monster,” Sam suggested, resting his head back against the tire.

            “Well, more power to him. He’s never gonna catch up to us.”

            “I’m not so sure that’s a good thing, Dean.”

            _Gordon was easier_ , the thought was hidden there, _Gordon was easier than the demons_. But that had to mean _the other demons_ , because Sam was one of them, too.

            “All right, c’mon.” Dean got to his feet. “Let’s head in, I want mom to take a look at you. Something’s funky with your head, so…better safe than sorry.”

            Mary obliged to perform a perfunctory assessment of Sam’s physical state, sitting hunched over on the couch with his wrists on his knees, and in minutes she stepped back with her hands on her hips, frowning. “You say this has happened twice?”

            Dean had his mouth open to confirm, but Sam interrupted, “Actually, more like a dozen times.” He caught Dean’s disbelieving stare and shrugged. “I wasn’t gonna mention it. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.”

            Dean cussed and looked away.

            “Sam, considering what you’ve been through, if something like this comes up I want to know about it. Okay?” A tinge of warmth wreathed Mary’s voice, so Dean held out hope that maybe she hadn’t turned her back on Sam completely yet.

            “Okay.” Sam agreed, and there was a pause. “What’s happening to me?”

            Mary sighed. “My best guess is you’ve developed a condition similar to narcolepsy. You’re overworked, you’ve _been_ overworked for months, and without the Masque to supplement your strength, your body is scrambling to catch up. It’s snatching quick moments of REM every chance it gets.”   

            “So he’s basically knocking himself unconscious?” Dean demanded, and Mary’s moth corkscrewed with dry humor.

            “That’s one way of putting it.”

            “Dude, only _you_.” Dean muttered, and Sam looked sheepish.

            “Will it go away?” He asked, turning back to Mary.

            “Eventually, if you take good care of yourself, I don’t see why it wouldn’t.” Mary shook her head slightly. “But you _do_ need to take good care of yourself, Sam. If your body’s telling you to sleep, then _sleep_. Don’t think you have to keep up appearances for the rest of us.”

            “Okay,” Sam repeated, rubbing his hands on his knees, and then he got to his feet. “In that case, I think I should probably go catch a few hours…wake me up in four?”

            “You got it.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder as Sam passed him, and then it was just Dean and Mary, alone in the room.

            Mary stroked her fingers through the hair beside Dean’s temple, and he leaned into her touch.

            “How are you?” She asked.

            “Big brother all over again,” Dean answered, because it was the best answer he had to give.

            “Hmm, Sam’s not the only one keeping up appearances, is he?” Mary gave Dean’s hair a gentle tug. “Dean. It’s all right to forgive him.”

            “Ah, I don’t,” Dean slanted his eyes away from hers. Lying to Mary was harder than lying to himself. “I don’t know if I’m in a real forgiving mood, mom, y’know?”

            “Well, when you’re ready, don’t hold back for my sake.” She kissed his temple. “Some of us take longer to see the good in things.”

            “Well, maybe I’m right there with ya.”

            “I know you are. Most of the time.” Mary said. “But you never had a hard time finding the good in Sam.”

 

-X-

 

            A demon and a half was a bad equation to have under one roof.

            John avoided Sam.

            He regretted his decision to divulge the truth of his past, of his lineage, in the way a thief regretted stealing. Not for the act itself, but for fear the secret would spread. That someone would find out and, faster than anything, he’d find himself in bracelets of steel, shackled and dragged to the gallows.

            Some part of him knew that was paranoid thinking; aside from his family, there was no one Sam could spill the story to who would care. And so far, there didn’t seem to be any aversion toward him from Mary, Dean, or Bobby, so it was safe to assume Sam had kept his secret.

            John avoided him for other reasons, too: that the sight of Sam flushed up all his old fears, had John’s finger itching for a trigger even though he knew demons couldn’t be killed by a bullet from a standard-issue firearm. He realized that _Faceless_ had been easier, because _Faceless_ could be anything.

            And he was still trying to convince himself that what Sam was—what John had been born of—could change. That if Sam wanted badly enough to be better, to rise above the history of his race, then that was his choice, his path to walk. And John, himself a master of backsliding over the years, wouldn’t allow himself to be the first to sneer at Sam’s attempts to reform.

            John kept himself busy: leaving for days at a time, sometimes with Bobby in tow, to drive to the closest hub of a town, to harvest information on the movements of the demons. John missed the greater half of Sam’s detox; he wasn’t around for a good portion of Sam’s unconscious fits.

The hits kept coming; John was in Idaho on a solo run, picking up tabs on Lilith’s movements, when Mary called him with a blunt question: “How easily could you get some antibiotics?”

            Sam had an upper-respiratory infection.

            “Is his body a hive for disease, or something?” John demanded over the phone, breaking the window of the pharmacy with his elbow.

            “The detox completely vaporized his immune system.” Mary sounded cranky and tired, the same edginess from late nights when John used to find her awake, nursing Dean for the eighth time. “His body spent so much time attacking itself, trying to get rid of the Masque, he doesn’t have any antibodies left.”

            “Keep him someplace clean, or that infection’ll turn to pneumonia,” John said, legging himself over the pharmacy counter and perusing the shelves. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

            “Hurry, John. He sounds like he’s about to cough the lining off his lungs.”

            He settled on a bottle of extra-strength antibiotics and, as an afterthought, extra-strength multivitamins. He slapped a fifty dollar bill on the counter and lowered himself out the window, sauntering back to the Impala with drugs in hand and tampering down the guilt that lingered from breaking and entering. It had been a few years since he’d had the need to do that. 

            He broke the speed limit on his way back to Sioux Falls, because whatever else happened, John couldn’t let Sam die, drowning in his own fluids. He pulled up to the salvage yard just after midnight, his high beams cutting a sluice  of brightness into the night, highlighting the figure standing watch at the back porch.

            Dean. Always Dean.

            John had made himself scarce around his son lately, too. Dean’s whole focus was wrapped up in taking care of Sam, trying to set him back on the straight and narrow. John respected that, and didn’t interfere; didn’t insert himself anywhere, really, he pulled himself back instead. Chasing demons was easier than following his family, sometimes.

            It raised interesting philosophical theories, too.

            Dean shrugged away from the porch railing at John’s approach, rumpling his shoulders inside his hoodie. “You get the good stuff?”

            John tossed the bottle of antibiotics to him underhand, and Dean rolled it across his palm, squinting at the label. After a moment of inspection, he snapped his fingers triumphantly. “Bingo. Thanks, dad.” He drummed up the porch steps and vanished inside.

            John watched him go, a soft, tinny ringing in his ears; stories he’d heard in that small town in Idaho left him evaluating Dean in a different light.

            He was surprised when Dean came back, stretching and yawning and ruffling his hair into bedhead. “Where d’you keep disappearing to for days on end, old man?”

            John leaned against the Impala’s front bumper. “Running intel on Lilith’s people. Digging up dirt.”

            Dean’s eyes gleamed bright in the darkness. “Find anything?”

            “Most of the talk’s on Seattle. Sam pissed off a lotta people, going after the referee like he did. Not to mention what he did to _you_.” John heard the brittle quality of his own voice, and glossed over it. “But the demons love him. From the sound of things, they think Sam’s some kind of warrior Messiah who’s here to change up the fights for all of them.”

            “They got another thing comin’.” Dean grated. “What about Lilith?”

            “She’s been holed up in Nashville for the last few weeks. Lusiver’s disappeared, too. My guess is, he’s backing her play in Tennessee.”

            “Waiting for Sam.” Dean crossed his arms. “That’s the big finale, right? The prize-fight between Sam and Jake. That’s what Lilith thinks is gonna turn Sam into her personal little demonic soldier-boy.”

            “Sounds like it.”

            “Friggin’ demons, man, _seriously_.” Dean’s scathing tone made the words a curse.

            Their breaths created fumes on the cold air. John sniffed and matched Dean’s posture, folding his arms. “How’re you holdin’ up, Deano?”

            “Oh, I’m peachy.” Dean’s voice hadn’t lost that derisive quality. “I’m gonna be _awesome_ once I get Lilith’s head on a stake.”

            John didn’t doubt that Dean had the ambition and wherewithal do it; not anymore. But that was beside the point. “I mean physically. You been takin’ it easy like the doc ordered?”

            Dean’s jaw popped open, and then he slammed his mouth shut and shrugged. “Hey, it’s life, dad. Sometimes ya can’t take a siesta.”

            “ _Dean_.” John groaned.

            “What?” Dean replied defensively. “Bobby’s got me on this Vicodin stuff, I’m not running any marathons. I’m good, dad.”

            “Don’t run yourself into the ground just to protect Sam.”

            Dean went remarkably still, watching John with familiar belligerent eyes. “No one’s _running themselves into the ground_. So just back off, dad, all right?”

            John snorted faintly. “All right.”

            After a few tense seconds, Dean shrugged his shoulders more comfortably into his hoodie and swept the dark yard with reflective eyes. “Look, you’re right. Kinda. I am tryin’ to help Sam. Maybe I’m a dumb bastard, but I think we can still save him.” His expression was cautious, testing the waters. “But I’m gonna need your help. Mom’s, too. You’re not the only one who, uh,” he chuckled slightly, his eyes crinkling with crows-feet at the corners. “Can’t do this alone.”

            It took John’s mind a second to catch up, to the things he’d said in the hospital to what he’d assumed was Dean’s unconscious body, and his eyes narrowed. “You’re a real tough act, Dean. You were supposed to be out of commission.”

            “It’s funny, the stuff people say when they think you’re a couple steps short of the grave.” Dean cranked on his megawatt grin. “Maybe I should get my insides bashed to pieces more often.”

            “Don’t joke about that.” John said, sharply, and Dean stared at him. “When you have a kid of your own, you’ll understand. What you went through is _not_ a joke to me, Dean, and if it was anyone but Sam—if he hadn’t been out of his mind from those drugs—” John cut off, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard.

            “You’d waste him.” Dean concluded lowly.

            “You’re damn right I would.”

            “Then why spare _him_ , huh?” Dean demanded. “Why’re you givin’ _Sam_ a second chance? No offense, dad, but you used to hate the guy.”

            John couldn’t deny that honest truth. “This goes a lot deeper than Sam. Goes a lot deeper than any of us, Dean. But I know for a fact, any man can change his ways if he puts his mind to it. I’d be an idiot not to give Sam that chance.”

            And saying it, somehow, made him feel one step closer to believing it.

 

-X-

 

            Sam was sopped with sweat and pinking with fever, but the antibiotics were doing their work.

            Dean didn’t sleep much himself, because Sam’s coughing sounded like he was choking and it always brought Dean back to full consciousness every time something set him off. He resigned himself to crashing during the day, when Mary was keeping an eye on Sam; with their days and nights switched, they didn’t see much of each other.

            After their conversation in the yard under the fluorescent moon, John didn’t take off again. He stayed, put in a call to Jim Murphy, and pored over newspapers instead. It was always that, newspapers or that green journal.

            Dean kept an eye on the headlines, but he never saw any mention of Ruby; which meant he’d done his job well, and done good work of covering his tracks.

            Playing the guitar proved itself to be impossible; the series of motions it took to strum tightened his abdominal muscles like driving pikes into his broken ribs. Dean gave up after the third try, and restlessness set in.

            Reruns on the television only satisfied him for so long; Dean hadn’t done any training in weeks, since before Seattle, and even if there was no point to it now, he found himself craving the adrenaline rush, the liquid-smooth motions. He shadow-boxed, sitting on the floor with his back to the couch, because that was all he could get away with and avoid Mary’s wrath.

            Dean drove to Sam’s house, one day, just to retrieve the blankets Sam had taken with him the day he’d left. Dean stood in the doorway, surveying the mess, a strong smoky-sweet smell assaulting his senses. The place really was a dump, and Dean felt there was some intrinsic understanding: Sam wasn’t coming back here again.

            Five days after Sam came down with a wracking cough, Dean had no choice but to project his transient state of mind onto Mary, the only conscious presence in the house. It was a rare case of Sam sleeping soundly that left Dean feeling slightly aloof and unneeded, seeking purpose in the presence of the person who’d _been_ his purpose embodied for twelve years.

After half an hour of Dean pacing the kitchen and analyzing her work, Mary turned away from the stove, to Dean, who’d stopped to hover behind her while he watched her cook, and she gave him a gentle shove with her hand between his collarbones. “You are driving me absolutely crazy, Dean. Go blow off some steam.” 

            “How?” Dean demanded, jiggling his foot unremittingly. “Can’t train, nowhere worth driving, dad’s asleep, Bobby’s fixing cars—”

            “Then go help Bobby.”

            “I tried. Catalytic converter popped a heat shield.” He held up a finger. “ _One man_ job.”

            “Then go walk circles— _gentle circles_ —around the property, Dean. I don’t know, just don’t crowd me.”

            “Is this crowding?” Dean stepped into her breathing space. “Ma? Ma? M’I crowding you?”

            “ _Stop it_!” Mary laughed, giving him another shove. “You’re a nightmare.”

            “I’m _bored_.”

            “Go be bored somewhere where it’s not distracting me. I’m trying to make apple pie, and it’s delicate work.”

            That was incentive enough for Dean to leave her in peace.

            He wandered outside, weaving through the cars with his hands stuffed in his pockets, enjoying the cold; Bobby always kept his house ridiculously hot, like he was prepping for an ice age. In Bobby’s own words, “Ya never know what’s gonna bite you in the ass come winter in South Dakota. So nut up, or shut up.”

            Dean eventually found himself in the plot of empty backyard again, by Chelsea’s grave. He sat with his back to the house, leaning his wrists on his knees, staring at the  makeshift gravestone and letting his mind drift.

            There was plenty enough to think about, things that mattered and things that didn’t, and Dean was willing to wager it would be a lifetime before he sorted out the difference.

            He leaned his head back at the shuffle of footsteps, squinting one eye shut against the glare of the sunlight.

            Sam leaned his shoulder heavily against the siding of the house. “Hey.”

            “Dude, it’s like forty degrees out here. Shouldn’t you be inside?”

            “I could ask you the same thing.” Sam lowered himself to the corner of the house, forcing Dean to scoot over with a grumble. “You spend a week in the same spot and outside starts to look really, really promising.”

            “Tell me about it. I’m goin’ friggin’ nuts in there.” He shook his head. “Wish we could get back to training, or something. Just…fill up the time.”

            “Time until _what_ , Dean?”

            It was a good question, and there wasn’t any real answer; every moment they’d spent together had been geared toward one thing, one purpose, one end-goal: punching through the Leagues and circumventing Lilith inside the dynasty she had made for herself. Without that, there was no next-step. There was just…drifting.

            “I’ve never been back here before,” Sam said, when the silence stretched on into discomfort. He shifted, coughing viciously into his fist and shuddering slightly. “Agh. Dude, that’s nasty.”

            “You sure you wanna be out here, Sam?”

            “Swimming in my own bacteria probably isn’t helping me much.” Sam cocked one knee to his chest, surveying the yard. “So, that’s where you buried Chelsea, huh?”

            “What, so _now_ you care?” Dean jibed.

            Sam’s eyes pulled tight with sadness. “Dean, you know I didn’t—”

            “Yeah, yeah, you were out to lunch.” Dean balmed his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Yknow, I don’t think anyone outside of Bobby knows about that girl, or what the hell happened to her. Well,” He paused, remembering Roy. “No one alive, anyway.”

            Sam’s expression was so full of compassion and empathy, Dean didn’t know how to meet his eyes. “D’you want to talk about it?”

            Dean had a million barbs to trade for that, about sharing and caring and how Sam had related to the mention of Chelsea while they were in Chicago. But what escaped him was, “Yeah, actually. I kinda do.”

            “Okay.” Sam nodded. “When you’re done, Dean, there’s something I…” He trailed off, scratching the back of his head, his chest rumbling with a cough like distant thunder. “I’m ready to talk, too. About what happened in the Reactor.  You were right, keeping it bottled up is just gonna kill me. I kept thinking about it when I was sick.” He picked at a loose thread in the hem of his sweatpants. “And I think…if I don’t tell someone, I’m gonna start climbing the walls.”

            “Well, hey, you know I’m all ears.”

            Sam half-smiled and shook his hair from his eyes. “You first.”

            Dean was okay with that; for the first time in days, he felt patient. “Okay, so this started when I was workin’ that month at Bobby’s. A couple days in, the asshat you took down in Manchester, Roy Bateman, he shows up like he owns the place…”

 


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Last Stand

 

            Sam’s story was a long one, and there wasn’t a single facet of it that was happy.

            He didn’t gloss over the gritty details; he gave it all, from the moment he’d woken drugged and dizzy in one of the smaller underground rings of the Reactor and on through the gory particulars of the torture he’d endured. Like evacuating an infection; like he was desperate to make Dean understand. And while the words registered, settled in and defined themselves, there was a part of Dean that _didn’t_ understand. Couldn’t comprehend how it felt to have a whip lay your back into jagged strips. The way that days of starvation could make you do almost anything, so you’d submit to fight, and be defeated, just for a scrap of food.

            Dean’s mind couldn’t wrap around a narrative so totally inked in blood on the tip of a knife, and the protective part of him rebelled against the knowledge that this wasn’t just a _story_ : this was _Sam_ , this was what had _happened_ to Sam while Dean was looking for a way to free him. His throat chafed cold and Dean struggled to keep his composure.

            Sam, for his benefit, told the recount like it had happened to someone else. The description, down to the last detail, was the only thing that really set him apart as a victim rather than a cold, distant witness.

            “I guess I healed faster than a human would,” He scratched absently at the bandage on his palm; the antibiotics that had seen him turn the corner on the respiratory infection had gone to work on the inflamed skin of his hand, too. “I just didn’t realize it, ’cause the hits kinda…never stopped, y’know?” He let out a puff of a chuckle and Dean felt Sam’s eyes flick to him sidelong, gauging his reaction.

            “Yeah,” was all he could manage around the clot in his throat.

            “Anyways,” Sam went on when the silence slid into awkwardness. “All that stuff was supposed to _unleash my powers_ or something, I guess, but it never really took. That’s when Lilith shoved me in a cage on isolation detail.”

            “How come?”

            “She probably figured I’d starve to death or try to mind-meld my way out of the cage.” Sam gestured loosely with one hand, his gangly legs splaying out on the grass. “That’s when you showed up, and I guess you know the rest.”

            “The whole beautiful truth,” Dean muttered.

            Knowing didn’t seem to change much; like calm water, it barely rippled the glassy stillness between them. But under the surface everything was churning in a foamy spray. If Dean had wanted Lilith dead before, this changed things; now he wanted to take his time with her first. Repay on her what she’d done to Sam, and then some.

            The kicker was that Sam would never let him do it; if Sam knew what Dean was thinking, he’d spend hours trying to talk him out of it.

            And the part that stabbed like a knife between Dean’s broken ribs was that Sam showed more sympathy toward Dean’s story about Chelsea than he spared for the thought of his own suffering.

            “She was just a _kid_ ,” Sam said after a few minutes of roiling silence, staring at Chelsea’s grave. “Who could do something like that?”

            “Beats me. Roy was a sick son of a bitch.” Dean shrugged one shoulder. “But, hey, he was running with Gordon’s crew, so it’s not the shocker of the century.”

            “Still. Putting a child through this life—you have to be pretty messed up.”

            “Well, how old were you when the demons demon-napped you, huh? What, three? Four, maybe?”

            Sam’s eyes dimmed at the thought. “Something like that, yeah.”

            “That’s how monsters swing, Sam. Go for the kids.”

            Sam cocked his head slightly, thoughtfully. “I guess.”

            They sat in silence until the cold chased them indoors, Sam hacking and coughing and due for another round of the antibiotics; and Dean wanted to apologize, all over again, for leaving Sam in that hell for months while they were helpless to spring him. But _sorry_ was a word that wore out the more you said it, and it already rubbed a sour taste on Dean’s tongue. He left it alone, let it fester in the hollow spots in his chest.  

            As Sam regained his strength, the others seemed to warm to him more and more. Bobby was mostly irritably tolerant in his own right, but through care-giving Mary’s standoffishness thawed; sometimes Dean walked in on Sam and John sitting at the kitchen table, eating in complete silence. Complete, but companionable.

            Sam’s fainting spells tapered; he could stay up, stay on the move for longer stretches of time after the antibiotics went to work, even with the lung-scarring cough doubling him over every few minutes. His strength from their training days was just a fantastic memory, but Dean consoled himself that at least Sam wasn’t face-planting in his oatmeal anymore.

            As the days wore on, Bobby found some sort of perverse pleasure in feeding Sam disgusting food, because with his ruined taste buds Sam couldn’t tell the difference.

“It’s the least that kid could do.” Bobby said innocently when Dean found him forking cold beets onto a plate and squirting them with a liberal amount of ketchup. “’Sides, _somebody’s_ gotta do the dirty work around here, and none of us sane folk are gonna eat _beets_.”

            It didn’t feel domestic, because everything skated on a thin sheet of ice; skirting the most pronounced subject at hand, living in a world that took things one day at a time because it was impossible to plan beyond what they could see.

            Dean was perched cross-legged on the kitchen table, bedhead and a beater shirt three days after he swapped tragedies with Sam, feeling overwhelmingly cranky at being woken up early for a fresh change of bandages around his ribs, when John walked downstairs in a stormcloud of intent. When John tossed him the cell phone their family shared between them, Dean almost hung up without waiting to hear who it was.

            “It’s Joanna.” John shrugged on his leather coat. “Talk to her.”

            “Where are you going?” Mary looked up from her ministrations to Dean’s damaged middle.

            “Out.”

            John slammed the door hard enough to rattle the watercolor painting in the study. Dean cocked an eyebrow, then brought the phone to his ear. “Hey, Jo—”

            “You know I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for three and a half weeks, right? Three and a half _weeks_. You could’ve been _dead_ for all I knew, you sure weren’t looking too hot when my mom dragged me out of the hospital!” Jo was bellowing in his ear by the end of the tirade and Dean held the phone a few centimeters away from his ear.

            “Good to hear your voice too, blondie.”

            “Don’t get cute with me.” Jo’s voice crackled with static, and Mary tamped down the bandages with strips of tape, patted Dean’s side and hurried out the door after John, letting it swing shut behind her. “Oh, and tell John he’s got his head wedged up his ass.”

            “Whoa, hey, that’s my dad you’re talkin’ about.” Dean hopped off the table, stretching his stiff torso; movement was a little easier, but he still felt like there was a burlap sack of stones wedged into his ribcage, and his stomach was tender. “What’d he do to piss you off, anyway?”

            “Hmmm, let me think. Oh, _yeah_. He’s keeping a _monster_ in the house with you. A mons—a _demon_ that tried to _murder_ you.”

            “Hey!” Dean snarled, a glare dropping his brows low, pitching his voice to a throaty growl. “That’s my _brother_ , Jo, so watch it.”

            “ _Brother_? You barely know the guy!”

            “Quality over quantity.”

            “What _quality_? He tried to disembowel you!”

            “You weren’t even here for most of it.” Dean yanked the fridge open, pulled out a can of beer and popped it with one hand. “Don’t act like you got the corner on my friendships just ’cause we grew up together.”

            “Look, I’m _trying_ to watch your back, since _clearly_ nobody else is doing it.”

            “I appreciate the concern.” Dean rolled his eyes shut, tipped his head back. “Y’know, I do. You and I have been through a hell of a lot, Jo.” He let his chin duck, opened his eyes again. “But this is my family you’re ragging on. And like it or not, family comes first. I made up my mind, I’m stickin’ on the reform path with Sam. Whatever it takes, for as long as it takes. So you might as well suck it up.”

            “Dean. Listen to me. _This is killing you_.”

            “No.” Dean kicked the fridge shut behind him, holding up the beer. “What’s killing me is the fact that I can’t get my hands around Lilith’s throat. What’s _killing_ me is that people I care about keep getting put in the crosshairs. And now that Sam’s had his psychotic breakdown, or whatever, gloves are off. Lilith’s gonna come after us with everything she’s got, and you wanna know what _kills_ me?” He didn’t give Jo a chance to guess. “It _kills_ me that there’s gonna be collateral. And I’m not gonna be able to stop it.”

            “Maybe you should stop trying to play everybody’s village hero for five seconds, and work on protecting your own skin for once.”

            “That’s like building a trust fund so I can die and leave to my kids.” Dean took a swig of beer. “What the hell’s the point?”

            “I think you missed the point? _That you don’t die_?”

            “What can I say, my sense of self-preservation needs some work.”

            “Dammit, Dean, why are you so _stubborn_?”

            “I like to think it’s a natural born quality handed down the line from my ancestors.” Dean waited for laughter that never came, and finally sighed, rubbing his wrist on his forehead, leaving a streak of condensation against his hairline. “Yeah, okay, not my best punchline.”

            “Not even funny.” Jo sounded reluctantly amused. “You sure you’re okay?”

            “Aside from my mom playing nursemaid on me twenty-four-seven, and Sam coming down with every cold virus known to man…” Dean trailed off, his mood melting into something more serious. “Yeah, Jo, I’m fine.”

            “Good, glad to hear it.”  He heard her swallow, the sound filling the line. “Seriously, Dean, about Sam, and what he did—”

            “’Bye, Jo.” Dean snapped the phone shut, tossed it on the table and polished off most of the beer in one swallow.

            “That was pretty rude.”

            Dean cracked one eye open as Sam, damp-haired and steaming from the shower, joined him in the kitchen.

            “Chicks are weird like that, bro. Gotta stay on your toes. Heads up,” He tossed the beer can and Sam caught it, finishing it off by what seemed like force of habit rather than interest. Dean couldn’t imagine finding food interesting if you couldn’t taste it.

            “That was Jo Harvelle, right?” Sam crumpled the can between the heels of his hands and lobbed it into the trashcan with a satisfying swish.

            “The one and only.” Dean braced his hands behind him on the table’s edge, leaning his weight against it.

            “And…?” Sam prompted.

            “And?”

            “And, what did she _say_?”

            “The adoring fangirl stuff. Asked for my autograph, wanted to sign my bandages. Hey, you think I could get some mileage outta that?”

            Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Lemee know how that works out for you.” He raised his eyes to Dean’s with that hangdog smile Dean hadn’t seen in months. “Dean, what did she say about _me_?”

            Dean groaned, walked to the sink and nudged the tap on, splashing his face with cold water. “The usual, non-fangirl crap. Wanted to know your coffin size.”

            “That friendly, huh?”

            “If you wanna paraphrase.” Blotting his face with a relatively clean dishtowel, Dean turned to face Sam. “You don’t sound all that surprised by a death threat from a girl half your size.”

            “She’s not that short. And you’re right, I’m not surprised.” Sam popped the fridge open, peered around inside, then slammed it shut. “We didn’t exactly see each other on good terms in the hospital, Dean.”

            “Right, when I was auditioning for American’s Most Adorable Mummy. Heh.” Chuckling, Dean twisted the towel into a rat’s tail, considered whipping Sam with it, then second-guessed himself. Sam’s horrified tales from the Reactor were still fresh like an untreated burn. “Nah, it was just a sermon. She pissed dad off, though.” He scratched the back of his head. “Gotta wonder what she said to him.”

            Sam’s throat bobbed in a constrictive swallow. “I think I know.”

            Dean stared at him, waiting for the shoe to drop. “You do?” When Sam stared at the backdoor, eyes faraway, Dean straightened against the sink. “You wanna share with the class?”

            Sam sighed, short and soft, through his nostrils. His expression was laced with concern and sadness. “It’s not my story to tell.”

 

-X-

 

            The second shoe dropped a week later.

            The kicker was it was a good day; no fainting spells, no fevers, and a pain grade of three on the scale for Dean. Whatever Sam was feeling, it was tolerable enough to hide behind a smile, and John had shed his bad mood like snakeskin.

            It was also Christmas, and this time, they had money for gifts.

            Bobby supervised the setup of the tree, one that he and John chopped down in a town three former-counties over. Dean didn’t ask how Bobby knew the exacter boundaries of every county in a deserted state. He didn’t want to know what trivial knowledge Bobby had amassed to pass the time in loneliness between visits.

            The tree, while tall, was improvised: beer cans flattened and cut into snowflakes by Mary, pine-tree air fresheners that Sam dug out from under his guest bed, and a strand of work lights from Bobby’s garage muted to ambiance by tiny tubes of construction paper that Dean spent half the day carving out.

            Mostly because John and Bobby didn’t want him ripping stitches or rattling loose ribs in the process of cutting down the tree and bringing it inside.

            The highlight of Dean’s night wasn’t the stuff John had bought on his last run to Idaho: a black-bladed tactical knife for Dean and a silver one for Sam, a honey-oak shotgun for Mary and a case of cigars for Bobby—“You _smoke_?” Dean demanded and Bobby looked offended: “Every man’s gotta have his guilty pleasures, kid.”—and the gift Mary gave him in exchange, a massive machete with razorback teeth.

“For killing vampires.” She said. “Just in case Gordon Walker decides to give us any more trouble.”

“I think I could take that dumb son of a bitch in a fight,” John said, and he kissed her until Bobby ordered them to cool it, or take it upstairs.

 The best part wasn’t even when Dean mimed air guitaring at Sam from across the room, cracking him up for no reason that the rest of them could understand; bringing on memories of a happier time.

            It was when it started snowing; that was the proverbial icing on the cake. Sitting with one arm flung across the back of the couch, the cold from the window at his back prickling his bare skin with his thermal shirt rucked up to his elbow, Dean stared at the tree taking up the niche in the corner that usually belonged to the television, and licked the lip of his beer bottle.

A year ago, things _had_ been a lot easier; but with a few bumps and bruises they were on the other side, still slogging through.

He grinned, holding his beer up in a toast. “Merry Christmas, guys.”

            “I can’t think of a better group of people to spend it with.” Mary raised her bottle, and one-by-one the others followed suit.”

            “What she said.” Bobby added grudgingly. “Buncha idjits.”

            John chuckled, and Sam smiled down at his own beer, swirling it and watching the froth coat the inside. Dean stretched out a leg and kicked Sam in the side.

            “Don’t make me beat that buzzkill outta your ass, Sam. Could be worse.”

            “I just can’t believe—after all we’ve been through—we’re just gonna sit here and celebrate Christmas again, like nothing changed.” Sam’s tone was soft. “Does anyone else feel like we’re lying to ourselves, here?”

            Three pairs of eyes studied the floor, and Dean watched Sam watching them. Wondering if there was ever one second of happiness they could have for their own before the sins of the past reared their ugly heads and devoured everything.

            Against the blustery gasps of the wind battering the siding of the house, a knock of intent sounded through the bowels of the room, and Dean glanced at Bobby.

            “You hear that?”

            “Shhsh.” Bobby held a finger to his lips, sitting up straight in his chair. On the floor by the tree with his arm around Mary, John came to attention as well.

            The knock came again, more urgent this time, unmistakable, and everyone was on their feet in tandem, crowding into the front hallway.

            “All right, back off, ya vultures!” Bobby cussed, elbowing Dean out of his way. Dean relented to perch on the bottom of the staircase, flipping his tact-knife back and forth in his hand. The unexpected visitor on a holiday gave him warped flashbacks of the day the demons had come for Sam; and if he’d learned anything of value since then, it was how to make a demon bleed.

            Bobby unchained and unlocked the door and threw it wide, a gust of snow washing his face and freckling his beard. He squinted, his demand of, “Who the hell—?” broken off when John stepped forward, laying a callused hand on his shoulder.

            “Bobby, it’s all right. It’s fine. I know him.”

            Bobby edged back, almost treading on Sam, and a tall willowy man in a floor-length trenchcoat stepped through the door, shutting it at his back and flipping down his hood. Dean gripped the knife with a shock of relief and confusion.

            “Padre?”

            “Good to see you, Dean.” Jim Murphy’s eyes studied Dean with approval. “You look well.”

            “I’m awesome.” Dean crossed his arms on the banister. “What the hel—?” He broke off when Mary cleared her throat significantly. “What brings you out here?”

            “I’m sorry to interrupt your Christmas. I know this is a terrible time.”

            “No time is a terrible time. Come on.” Mary led the way back into the study and the others trailed after her, Sam and Dean lingering, falling in at the rear.

            “What d’you think?” Sam intoned.

            “With our luck?” Dean slanted weary eyes Sam’s way.

            Mary seemed faintly flustered by the scattering of beer bottles in the study, and hurried past them, toward the stove. “I can make you some tea, or coffee—”

            “A beer will do just fine, ma’am.” Jim said soothingly. Mary leveled a curious stare from him, to John, who shrugged widely.

            “All right, beer it is.” She bent into the low olive-green fridge.

            “Jim, this is Bobby Singer.” John cuffed Bobby on the back. “He’s been puttin’ us up since the summer.”

            “We sure appreciate all the support,” Bobby shook Jim’s hand. “We’d be in the crapper if it weren’t for you, if you’ll pardon my language.”

            “Nothing to pardon.” Jim said, his eyes sliding to Sam. “How’s that hand?”

            Sam’s fingers jumped compulsively to scratch the bandage. “I sorta…ran out of the antibiotics pretty fast. But John got it taken care of. Thank you,” He tacked on the last bit with sincerity.

            “It was no trouble.” Jim lowered himself on the couch, sinking back with exhaustion graying his thin face as Mary returned and pressed a beer into his hands. “Thank you.”

            “And this is my wife, Mary.” John slung an arm around Mary’s waist.

            “Jim Murphy.” Jim shook Mary’s hand. “I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know your husband and sons in recent months.”

            Sam’s head swung up, shock flitting through his eyes at the inclusion, but Mary didn’t miss a beat.

            “Like Bobby said, we’re so grateful for all the support. Things haven’t exactly been easy lately.”

            “I know,” Jim said grimly, and Dean felt that slither in his guts that something bad was waiting in the wings.

            Bobby lowered himself back into his chair. “Not that we don’t appreciate the visit, but what brings you out here on Christmas day?”

            “Tell me it’s good news,” Dean groaned, but he didn’t hold out much hope.

            “I wish I could.” Jim took a slow, thoughtful swallow of his beer.

            Sam folded himself on the floor, elbows on his knees, arms crossed in his lap. “So, it’s bad news.”

            “How bad is bad?” John situated himself back at his post beside the tree, Mary leaning her arm along his leg, her shoulder pressed to his. Dean slouched in the doorway, eyes on the pastor.

            “That depends on your definition of _bad_ ,” Pastor Jim scratched his forehead. “My parish has been trying to drum up support for Sam nationwide. So far, it’s worked—people have been interested to see what happens next, after the Seattle chapter.”

            “But Sam’s _out_ ,” Dean protested. “He’s not fighting anymore.”

            “The demons don’t see in those shades of black and white.” Jim fished in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “And that is where _this_ comes in.”

            Dean had the distinct feeling that this was the exact moment when the shoe was going to drop.

            “Three days ago, I received a voicemail from a very interesting caller.” Jim’s thumb skated across the keypad and he held the phone out toward them.

            “Jim Murphy,” Lilith’s saccharine-sweet tone raked brutal talons down Dean’s spine. “I know about your little plan to rally and entourage around Sam. I know you’ve been helping the Winchesters under the table for a few months.” Her voice hardened, turning brittle; molasses, freezing over. “Whatever you’re planning, it stops. _Now_.”

            “Somebody’s throwin’ a tantrum,” Bobby muttered, and Mary hushed him.

            “But. As long as you’re slumming around with those people, you might as well bring them a message from me,” The recording went on. “Tell them that, after that show in Seattle? The stakes are raised and the gloves are off. Either Sam comes to the Gaiaphage in Nashville, alone, in a week to fight Jake, or I start picking people off. I’ll make your parish my opening act, Jim. And then I’ll take my time on the Winchesters. But we are _going_ to end this. One way, or another.”

            The voicemail clicked into white static, and they sat for seconds in silence before Jim shut the phone off and tucked it back into the pocket of his overcoat.

            “As soon as I got the message, I knew I needed to show you in person.”

            “Lilith’s scared,” Sam murmured. “She knows I have a chance. That I _had_ a chance, before.”

            “Son of a bitch,” Dean rubbed a hand down his face. “What’s our next move?”

            “It doesn’t sound like we got much of a choice,” Bobby said bleakly. “She’s callin’ him to the carpet.”

            “No.” Dean snarled. “Don’t even think about it.”

            “You’d really put Sam’s life before the lives of all those people?” Bobby rejoined fiercely. “Jim’s whole following?”

            Dean’s mouth cut sideways in a distortion of anger, and he looked away.

            “She’ll do it,” John said with quiet, dour certainty. “Bobby’s right, she’s a child throwing a tantrum. But she’ll break everything in her path, if she has to, to get her way.”

            “So our plan is to throw Sam out there on this own? You wanna talk sanctity of life, let’s _talk_!” Dean spread his arms slightly. “I’m not gonna put him on the altar just to stop Lilith’s game!”

            “Dean,” Sam began, softly, but Dean talked over him.

            “It’s not happening, Bobby. No. _Hell_ , no.”

            “Dean!” Sam snapped, climbing to his feet. “It’s not your call.”

            The feverish light of conviction in Sam’s eyes set off a flock of warning bells in Dean’s head. “Don’t you dare, Sam, we’re not doin’ this again—”

            “You know that I’ve been making all the wrong choices lately. Dean, you _know_ it,” Sam insisted. “So if I have the chance to the right thing, just this once, then I dunno…maybe it’s a start.”

            “So you’re just gonna sacrifice yourself. Let Lilith tear you to shreds, save all those people?” When Sam shrugged slightly, Dean yanked his hands back through his hair. “Not an option, Sam, dammit!”

            “With everything I’ve _done_ lately, you don’t think I need a chance to set things right? I gotta fix what I gotta fix.”

            “You don’t have to prove a point, Sam, we get it!”

            “Do you?”

            Dean closed the space between them, fisting his hands in the front of Sam’s shirt and slamming him against the wall beside the Christmas tree; from the corners of his eyes, he saw Jim start to rise, Mary beside him, but John motioned them back.

            Dean focused on Sam. “I know you feel like you gotta make up for all that crap that happened when you were on the drugs. I know where you’re coming from, Sammy. Believe me, I do. But you walk into Lilith’s arena and there’s a good chance you’re not gonna walk back out.”

            Sam’s gaze flickered with a bright, brief spurt of fear, then calmed. “Lusiver told me once that I was always playing somebody else’s game. One side or the other, I was just a puppet. You told me the same thing and you were right, hell, you _both_ were.”

            “ _Sam_.”

            “No, Dean, I mean it. I played straight into Lilith’s hands on this whole Masque thing, and I didn’t even think twice about it.” He shook his head. “I just…I need this one chance to show Lilith she doesn’t own me.”

            “By _walking into her trap_?”

            “By meeting Jake on my own _terms_ , Dean.” Sam squirmed against the wall and Dean released him, backing off.

            “You could die out there, Sam.” Dean said, bluntly. “That Jake kid could tear you to pieces, and you’re not hopped up on Masque this time.”

            “I know. And you think that doesn’t scare the hell out of me? Man, I’m terrified.” His tone didn’t betray it, steady and intent, and he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders up to his ears. “But we made it this far, and Lilith obviously wants to end it for good. So I say we meet her on her own territory and take the fight to her.”

            Turning Dean’s catchphrase back on him, the one he’d used dozens of times to keep Sam motivated through the Prelims. Dean scowled at him, every fiber of his being rebelling against the idea.

            Sam seemed to take the lack of rebuttal as agreement and glanced past him, to Jim. “D’you think Lilith will leave your people alone if I show up?”

            “She wouldn’t have any reason not to.”

            Sam nodded slowly. “Then I’ll do it.”

            Dean let his eyes fall shut against a surge of denial and anger. He wanted to slam Sam against the wall again and tell him he wasn’t going, end of story, no questions asked; that this wasn’t even open for discussion.

            But Sam was Sam, and he’d hijack a car and drive to Nashville by himself if Dean tried to cross that line with him.

            “Fine. You’re going.” He said. “But I’m going with you.”

            “Dean, you heard with Lilith said—!” Sam protested.

            “And this is me telling her to shove it up her ass. I told you I was gonna be in your corner and I _meant_ it, Sam. So _shut up_.”

            “Dean’s right. We’ll be there to back your play, Sam.” John said.

            “Not _we_ , dad.” Dean rounded on him. “You’re staying put.”

            John’s face went frosty and still. “That so?”

            “Look, I got no delusions. This is a suicide run.” Dean said frankly. “One way or another, it’s gonna end bloody or sad for all of us. So, somebody’s gotta be here to hold this joint together if things go south for me and Sam. And it’s not gonna be Bobby. No offense.”

            “None taken,” Bobby waved a dismissive hand.

            “Dean, don’t do this.” Sam fisted a hand in the sleeve of Dean’s shirt. “You said it yourself, this only ends one of two ways. I can’t drag you down with me.”

            Dean tossed him a glance over his shoulder. “I’m not gonna let you die alone out there, Sammy.”

            Sam’s eyes brightened with emotion, and he tugged on a hesitant smile before he dropped his hand and looked away.

            “Sweetheart—” Mary started.

            “Mom.” Dean licked his lips. “This is crappy enough already, don’t pull the touchy-feely card on me, okay?”

            Mary blinked rapidly, and held her silence.

            The pall touched them all; Sam rubbed the side of his neck, staring at the floor.

            Jim was the first to move, rising to his feet. “In that case, I’ll spread the word. The more support we can get in the week, the better.” He nodded to each of them. “I’m sorry to ruin your Christmas. And I wish there was some other way…but I didn’t know who else to go to for help.”

            “We’ll make sure nobody else gets hurt,” Sam assured him. “Your parish will be fine, father.”

            Jim’s eyes tightened with distress. “When you’re in Nashville, don’t bother paying for a motel. Come to my cathedral, it’s the only one still standing in the city.”

            He we gone, then, out of the study before any of them could call him back; the front door rattled open and banged shut, plunging them back into the all-encompassing silence that hung heavy with anticipation.

            “Attitude like that,” Bobby said after a piece. “You’d have made a helluva Hunter, Sam.”

            “I guess we’ll never know,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

            John picked up his discarded beer and tipped the last few swallows down his throat. “Merry Christmas.”

            He hurled the bottle against the wall.

           

-X-

 

            They couldn’t train.

            John was too heavy and too used to outright wrestling to be able to help Sam, and Dean was still laid up with Mary watching him hawkishly for any sign of new bruises or old injuries inflamed. That left them talking: recounting every move they’d learned together, sparring verbally instead of physically. Sam did a few strength exercises, but never enough to strain himself.

            Perversely, Dean wanted to make the week stretch on forever; he didn’t want to think about what was coming, not just the fight itself but the days that would follow it. It was the plan Sam seemed more intent on hammering out than he did his own strategy.

            “Dean, uh,” Sam first broached the subject two days after Christmas. “If things don’t go our way, I want you to bail.”

            They were sitting in the bed of the truck, watching the icy pinpoints of the stars on a clear night; moonlight spilled over the foot and a half of newly-fallen snow, making the whole world a globe of near daylight-brightness.

            Dean cocked his head toward Sam, peering at him from the corners of his eyes. “What, you mean just ditch your ass in the arena?”

            Sam looked down. “Well, when you say it like that—”

            “Not happening.”

            “Dean, I mean it. If it’s over for me, then promise me you’ll get out. Just get in the truck, and go. Don’t stop, don’t try to take on Lilith. Get back to Sioux Falls, regroup, and go in smart.”

            “And let them desecrate your corpse. Fun times.” Dean snorted.

            “I’m not worried about what a bunch of demons do to my body, Dean.”

            Dean tried for a smile that fell flat. “Why us, Sam? Huh?” When Sam angled him a confused look, Dean added, “Why’s it gotta be us who saves these people?”

            “Because we’re the reason they’re in danger, Dean. Lilith’s threatening them because of us, because of _me_.” He rolled his head slightly. “I’m the only one who can stop her.”

            “And then what? All we get is you dead and a whole bunch of strangers spared. Until the next time Lilith gets an itch to go on a killing spree.”

            “I’m kind of hoping you’ll find a way to kill her before there’s a next time.”

            Dean didn’t miss the singularity. _You_. Sam was slowly writing himself out of their lives, inch by inch.

            “I already got a plan for Lilith. Wale on her hard enough to get her bleeding on the inside.” Dean said savagely.

            Sam’s head snapped around. “Wait, what?”

            Dean had the sudden sense he’d said too much. “Whatever. Nevermind.”

            “No. Dean,” Sam insisted, slowly. “How’d you know about the bleed? I never told you about that.”

            “Yeah, you did. You just forgot.”

            “No way. I made _sure_ I didn’t. I didn’t want you to know—”

            “How to kill you?” Dean blinked slowly, rocking his head sideways to meet Sam’s eyes.

            “More like…why I attacked you the way I did.”

            “You thought I was a demon.”

            “No, it was just…what I’d been training for.” Sam shook his hair off his forehead. “How _did_ you find out?”

            Dean chuffed a laugh to block out the echo of remembered screams, ringing between his ears. “Everybody’s got their secrets, Sammy.”

            After a few tense seconds, Sam let it go. “You can’t bleed Lilith out, Dean. The Masque turned her insides to, like, lead or something, ’cause of how long she’s been taking it. The Colt’s the only thing that’ll work.”

            Dean’s plan imploded on itself like a dying star.

            He couldn’t sleep the night before they planned to leave for Nashville; the conversation they’d had in the truck bed, and the stark reality of how unprepared they were, seemed to saturate every corner of the room. Sam was sound asleep, or faking it like a champion, and the quiet of the house pressed down on Dean like a wet, hot blanket, suffocating him.

            After a few hours of tossing and turning, he couldn’t take it anymore. Trading sleep for the thought of coffee to keep him awake on the road, Dean tossed off the covers and let himself out.

            The grandfather clock in the hall showed it was quarter past two. Yawning in spite of his restlessness and grinding his knuckles into his eyes, Dean staggered into the study and pulled up short.

            Bobby was sitting at his desk, the low orange glow of the lap throwing a corona on the floor. The tree was still up, but dark; no one had the heart to strip it naked and toss it out. They had other things to worry about.

            Bobby’s cheek was propped on his fist, and he was religiously studying whatever book had captured his interest.

            “Man, it is way past your bedtime,” Dean murmured, and Bobby looked up with bleary, fatigued eyes.

            “Bite me.”

            “Maybe later.” Dean dropped heavily onto the couch, rubbing his face with dry hands.

            “Looks like I’m not the only one burnin’ the candle at both ends.”

            “Can’t switch my brain off.” Dean held up his hands and shrugged, then dropped his wrists to his knees and peered at Bobby. “What’s your excuse?”

            “Wonderin’ if there’s something we’re missing, here.”

            “What, like a way out?”

            “No, just some tactic we ain’t thought of yet. So far, jack with a side of squat, but I’ll keep diggin’ ’til the second Sam steps into that arena.”

            “Thanks.”

            “I ain’t doin’ it for him, Romeo.”

            Dean smirked slightly, then hung his head. “Yeah, we’re screwed, aren’t we?”

            “Understatement.” After a prolonged, weighty pause, Bobby shut the heavy book with a thump. “ ’Course, there’s always a way to gear Sam up for the fight.”

            “Like what, hire a martial artist?” Dean rubbed his eyes again.

            Bobby cleared his throat, and Dean glanced at him; watched Bobby pull a tall, thin glass tube from the pocket of his faithful vest, and give it a shake.

            Dean felt a warning chill vibrate in the marrow of his bones. He got to his feet, pointing to the vial. “Bobby, what the hell is that?”

            “ _That_ is the go-juice Sam was chuggin’.” Bobby set it on the desk. “Went and ripped his old house part, found a stash.”

            “Great. Toss it out.”

            “You really sure that’s the best idea?”

            Dean stared at him, thunderstruck. “I’m sorry, _come again_?”

            Bobby heaved a sigh. “Look, Sam’s got his balls to the buster on this one, Dean. He don’t stand a snowball’s chance and we both know it. Whatever Lilith’s cookin’ up, it’s huge, and I’ve heard about this Jake character. He’s a real piece of work, never let a monster walk away with his parts still intact. Sam’s not strong enough as it is, and you add the detox and all the viruses that he’s been running down for the last few weeks…he’s as good as dead.”

            “So you want to dose him. Give him another hit of Masque.”

            “Just enough to swing the odds a little in his favor, yeah.”

            “Dammit, Bobby, _no_!” Dean started pacing. “Are you outta your mind? We just got Sam to quit this stuff and now you wanna shove it back down his throat?”

            “If we don’t do something, Dean, you’re gonna watch that kid get torn to shreds in two days. Is that really what you want?”

            “No! I want Sam to back out. But this isn’t about me, Bobby, this is his choice. And he’d tell you to chuck that crap out the window!”

            “We’re talking about Sam’s _life_ here, Dean.”

            Dean stopped, rubbing a hand over his mouth, then dropping it to his side. “I can’t,” He broke off, rolling his eyes to the side, warring against the feeling of dread that wanted to choke him. “I’m not giving him Masque. I can’t pull one over on him like that, Bobby. He’s doing this sober.”

            “And if he dies?”

            “Then he dies _human_!”

            They glared at each other, a corrosive anger filtering through the air.

            “He ain’t _human_ , Dean. You can fight that ’til the cows come home, but Sam is _not_ just a person, he’s got demon in him, too.”

            “God, you people just don’t get it, do you?” Dean grated. “You, Jo, it’s like you’re missing the bigger picture, here.”

            “ _Enlighten_ me.”

            “Sam’s got _good_ inside him, Bobby.” Dean said earnestly. “I mean, yeah, he’s made a crapload of really bad choices. I get it. But he’s about to go out there and _die_ to make sure the rest of usget to see a few more sunrises.” Dean grabbed the vial of Masque and slammed it on the floor, shattering it. “The least we can do is show him some respect.”

            Bobby was stiff and unspeaking for a few long seconds before he deflated, sitting back in his chair. “Yeah, all right.”

            “ _Thank you_ ,” Dean said shortly, grabbing a glass off the table on his way to the sink. He filled it with lukewarm water and guzzled it down, carding a hand back through his hair. He poured out what he couldn’t finish in the first swallow and turned back to face Bobby. “Sam wants me to jump ship if things get dicey out there.”

            “Sounds like a Sam-thing to say.”

            “I guess.” Dean muttered.

            Bobby studied him closely. “You gonna do it?”

            “Do I have a choice?” Dean demanded with a narrow look.

            “Good point. Raises a sticky question, though, you trippin’ all over his dying wish. What is it you’re really worked up about here, Dean?” Bobby leaned crossed arms on the desk. “Losing the fight? Or losing Sam?”

            Dean pulled a humorless smile. “Good talk.” He moved toward the stairs, pausing in the doorway to add, “If Sam’s gone, I’m not comin’ home for long. I’m making Lilith every name on my hit-list, and I’m goin’ back for her.”

            “They say if you’re on a job for revenge, you better dig two graves.” Bobby said.

            “ _They_ never met a Winchester.”

 


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Jake Talley – Slow Bleed

 

            The following morning held a sense of brutal finality, and the feeling that they were doing the last of everything together.

            It was the last time they were getting dressed in this house; making their beds; tossing their dirty clothes in the hamper by the door. It was the last time Dean shaved and Sam brushed his teeth. The last time they packed, for the last fight, no matter the outcome, that they would be driving to. Dean tossed Sam a jacket, Sam fished the keys to the truck out from under Dean’s bed and handed them over.

            Sam followed Dean downstairs with a feeling of inevitability taking root in his chest, the duffle with their clothes over his shoulder, and Dean chose breakfast: waffles and eggs that Sam couldn’t taste. He ate them anyway, because he knew it was the last meal he’d ever get to eat with Dean; he wasn’t optimistic about that state of his appetite once they got to Nashville.

Chewing waffles was like chewing bland rubber, the kind that didn’t leave a faintly chalky aftertaste. Sam forced himself through it anyway, mechanically, chew, chew, chew, swallow. Across from him, Dean was shoveling down mouthfuls of tacky, syrupy waffles with his focus buried in a newspaper John had left spread out on the table, turned to a recap of League fights that had leap-frogged each other while the Winchesters were rallying.

“Anything in there I should know about?” Sam asked, cleaning his plate of the last bite of eggs.

“Nah, just the usual. Demons bein’ demons, whole world’s in the crapper, that kinda thing.” Dean snapped the newspaper shut and pushed his plate away, propping his elbows on the tabletop and rubbing his forehead. “We should hit the road.”

“What about…?” Sam nodded to the staircase. “Shouldn’t we say goodbye, first?”

“What for? We’re gonna be back in a few days.”

Dean’s obstinate refusal to face the reality of their situation left Sam feeling like he’d poured icemelt in his veins. He cleared his throat, slouching in his seat. “Dean, look, uh,” He hesitated. “You know there’s a pretty good chance I’m not coming back, right?”

Dean was unnaturally still, for a moment, and then he swiped his plate and carried it to the sink. With his back to Sam, bumping the knob to turn the hot water on, Dean said, “Thought crossed my mind.”

Sympathy dragged at the corners of Sam’s resolve. He got this feet, joining Dean by the counter and holding his own plate under the jettison of hot water. “Then you know this is important to me. I have to do things _right_.”

Dean’s gaze slanted to him sideways, and Sam realized with a jolt that he’d spent most of the last year not speaking with Dean; not that they didn’t talk, swapping verbal spars and secrets and sometimes hurting, hateful words, especially in the last few months. But there were stories Sam could tell about Dean that never found any voice except through his eyes.

Dean had a poker face to beat the devil, a cocky, self-assured game face that was difficult to outmaneuver. But there were times when whatever chaos Dean was masking punched its way in force through his bright greens, laying out a process, a narrative that Sam had somehow come adept to reading.

This was one of those times.

But all Dean said was, “I’ll wash, you dry. Don’t break anything.”

It was Dean’s way of relenting without betraying form; Sam let him have that, bowing graciously out of the argument, drying off every clean dish Dean handed him and stacking them neatly on the counter. They worked in silence, the hiss of the water and the sound of Bobby snoring in the study a soundtrack in itself.

Fitting, somehow, to the last of all that was.

They’d both woken up well before sunrise, neither one able to talk themselves into sleeping anymore; the sun had risen, painting the window above the sink and the yard beyond an iridescent gold, when Mary finally walked in. Sam didn’t hear her, gliding soundlessly in her white cotton nightdress, and he flinched violently when her fingertips tugged through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Good morning,” Her voice heavy with sleep, Mary poured herself stale overnight coffee and slid the mug into the microwave. “How did you boys sleep?”

“Not too bad,” Sam said, at the same time Dean muttered, “Like crap.”

Sam flashed Mary a sheepish smile, and Dean studied the floor.

“I don’t blame you, sweetheart.” Mary kissed Dean’s cheek, and Sam saw his eyes squeeze shut.

A worsening sense of loss limbering through his guts, Sam looked away.

John was a minute behind Mary, fingers threading listlessly through the salted dark curls beside his temple. He poured himself the last of the orange juice, his eyes canvassing Sam and Dean thoughtfully. He polished off his glass before he spoke: “Shouldn’t you boys be hittin’ the road about now?”

Dean jerked his head. “Sam wanted to say goodbye.”

The back of his neck creeping with a flush, Sam shrugged. “Just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“I’m glad you waited.” Mary approached him and Sam felt his muscles coiling tight with tension; Mary had avoided him aside from her ministrations to his various sicknesses in recent weeks, and Sam wasn’t exactly sure what to expect from her right now, with everything that was impending, and everything else that had happened.

Mary surprised him by laying a gentle hand along the sweep of his jaw, her eyes searching his and, somehow, seeming to like what she saw. “Mothers never really give up on their children.” She tipped his head down and kissed his dark hair. “I’ll say a prayer for you, Sam.”

“Thanks, I’m gonna need it.”

When Mary moved to speak to Dean, her mouth close to his ear, Sam avoided John’s eyes. He was saved from the discomfort of a goodbye that held too many null and silent understandings by Bobby levering himself off the couch and stumping in.

“Well, ain’t this a heartwarming scene?” Bobby spotted the empty container of orange juice on the counter and the creases in his face turned to irritable crags. “I was _savin’_ that!”

“For what, the expiration date?” John’s fingers went back to work on his temple.

Grumbling under his breath, Bobby turned to Sam. There was a fleeting gleam of something almost guilty in his muddy brown eyes, and then Bobby removed his cap, scratched the back of his head; replaced the cap, and he finally offered his hand to Sam.

“Been a rocky road, kid, but I appreciate the risk you’re taking, here.”

Sam wasn’t sure that suicide, really, counted as a simple risk; but maybe killing yourself for a cause didn’t make you suicidal. It made you a legend.

“Yeah, it’s worth it, y’know?” Sam said with sincerity, shaking Bobby’s hand. “Take care of these guys.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Bobby turned to Dean as Mary stepped back, drying her eyes inconspicuously on the back of her hand. “And you, idjit, you better not make any fool plans while you’re out there, hear me?”

“Dude, I’m sick with wisdom. I’ll be fine.” Dean pasted on that megawatt grin. Bobby clapped him on the side of the neck, then bumped him out of the way for leverage to the sink.

They both turned to John, and Sam didn’t think he was imagining Dean’s reluctance; a lecture, last words, something heavy and invasive was percolating between the three of them, and Sam almost felt better off not knowing what it was.

But all John said was, “I’ll walk you out.”

They moved in step across the yard to the truck, three men with their breaths creating a lace of frost on the air, speckles of silver-gold where the sunlight touched. Hands plunged deep into his pockets, Sam leaned his head back to breathe in the smell of burned rubber, engine oil and grass; Bobby’s property didn’t seem as isolated and free as the house in Lawrence, but Sam still felt like he could hop that fence and run forever.

A part of him still wanted to.

They reached the truck and John slowed his stride, finally coming to a stop a few feet behind them; Sam and Dean turned to face him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and Sam knew that whatever was waxing strong had come to the boiling point.

“This is it,” John said grimly. “You two got everything you need?”

“Duffle bag,” Dean pointed to the bag on Sam’s shoulder. “Clothes, those knives you got us, a couple C-Rations Bobby passed along. Oh, and a hallelujah and a Hail Mary, ’cause we are royally boned on this one. Right, dad?”

John ignored the question; Sam figured it was mostly rhetorical, anyway. “We’ll be running blind back here. Lilith’s still got the airwaves running static. Whether she opens it up for the fight is beyond me, but as it stands right now we got no way of knowing what’s goin’ on out there.”

Sam felt his chest squeeze like a vice at the thought of Mary, John and Bobby sitting, or pacing the study for hours, unsure of the outcome of the fight.

Dean seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “Maybe Pastor Jim’s got some kinda workaround.” He suggested. “I’ll ask him.”

“That’s not important right now.” And John was suddenly all business, serious and firm. “Don’t worry about us. You two worry about yourselves. Worry about each other.” His gaze revolved seamlessly from Sam to Dean and back again. “Watch each other’s backs.”

“We will.” Dean said, his conviction warming Sam with gratitude.

“Sam,” John turned to him, and Sam came to attention. “When you get in that ring, it’s gonna be a tough fight. Toughest you’ve ever had, and you’re going in there running on half the power you need.” He didn’t give Sam a chance to respond. “Don’t give that demon an inch. Understand? You give ’im hell.”

“You know I will.” Sam said.

John’s mouth curled sideways in what was almost a smile, before he studied them: wise, dark eyes, and bleak recognition of the fact that one or both of them might never come home.

“It’s been a year we’ve been workin’ at this.” John said. “We’ve waited a long time for this fight. Everything we did, everything we went through, it’s been gearing up for this, and now it’s here, and I’m not gonna be a part of it. It’s up to you boys now.” His haunted gaze held them captive. “It’s your fight. Finish it. You finish what we started.”

And in that moment, every line painted by blood in the sand washed away; there was no singularity in that last order, no division tearing them apart. It was their fight, their purpose, their family’s mission from the start.

            John passed it over to them like a proverbial torch, the fiery glow blending in with the sunlight.

“Yes, sir.” Sam and Dean chorused.

Finally, John smiled. “Good boys.” He clapped Dean on the arm, nodded to Sam—a single gesture that conveyed more emotion than Sam could bring himself to understand—and then he was gone, winding through the tumble of junk cars and scrap parts, toward the house.

Dean smacked Sam on the chest with the back of his hand. “C’mon, we’re wasting daylight.”

Sam threw the duffle into the cab first, legged himself up after it; while Dean rattled the key into the ignition, Sam leaned forward to see through the windshield, peering up at the two-story, attic-capped house that had been sanctuary for the most part since he’d escaped the Reactor.

 A weight settled in his chest, constricting his lungs.

“I feel like this is the last time I’m gonna see this house.”

Dean, tight-lipped, stayed quiet. But Sam could see the storm brewing in his telltale eyes.

 

-X-

 

The road to Nashville seemed to stretch on forever.

Sam crumpled himself into the side door, leaning his forehead against the window and watching the landscape bleed together like runoff from a rainstorm. He remembered the last time they’d made this trip between Sioux Falls and Nashville: Dean, pale and soaked in his own blood, and Sam driving. Sam’s nerves had been so frayed by the time they’d made it to Bobby’s he’d almost collapsed when his feet hit solid ground.

It was better to have Dean driving; when Dean drove, Sam didn’t have to worry about the reasons or the places they were going. It was just Dean, it was just him, and they could have been going anywhere: the mini-mart, the next Pit, to an empty field in the middle of nowhere just to get away from everything.

It didn’t have to be Nashville.

But it was; every time Sam started to drift to sleep, his brain would kick itself into high gear, every piston firing, the synapses popping like fireworks. Sam thrashed and scooted and adjusted his position, trying not to worry Dean; keeping his face turned toward the door, his breath misting the glass.

The radio was eternal white noise, and they didn’t have a cassette tape to their name. So Dean hummed, occasionally he sang, old classics from before music had become _old_ , or _outdated_ ;back when hair guitar had dominated over the bass beats of the songs that the demons paid exorbitant amounts to keep in production, these days.

Sam knew this because Ruby had told him, trading gossip about the musical groups that Lilith dished money to for soundtracks to back their fights; and he hated the fact that anything Ruby had told him could bear an ounce of truth.

It made all of the lying seem, somehow, a hundred times worse.

There was a part of Sam that was grateful for the long journey; every rolling mile that brought them closer to Nashville was one less minute he had to live. Sam wasn’t harboring delusions about his chances; even with the Masque pumping black through his bloodstream, he’d only been Jake’s equal, not a superior. He knew this demon, knew the hammerstrike of his fists and the brutality of his blows. Jakes was raw power barely contained inside dark skin, murder unleashed.

Sam had nothing. Not even the déjà-vu to give him a slight advantage; in quiet moments of fever and restlessness while he’d battled the infection in his chest, Sam had tried to clear his mind and tap into his abilities. He’d found nothing but a yawning void, a vacuum of silence, and he was nothing now if not average. Worse than the least of all demons; the detox had sapped his power, and Sam didn’t have the heart to tell Dean that much, to tell him the truth:

Sam was essentially human.

But Lilith didn’t know that, either, and she wouldn’t care. She wanted a conclusive end to the campaign that had swept the nation by storm. She wanted Jake to beat Sam, or Sam to join her. This was a test, the last test: for Sam to rise above Jake’s level, to destroy him like he’d destroyed Max Millar and Ava Wilson and Lily Baker.

Lilith wanted her prize-fighter, offered on a plate.

She didn’t know that Sam didn’t have the strength, that this was a stand to save the people. Not himself.

This, Sam thought, glancing at Dean, was for _them_.

By his own choice, standing, terrified, but firm.

The reached the outskirts of the city at midnight, a galaxy of bright lights winking out through the sweeping hills. Dean nudged Sam awake from a semi-conscious doze against the window and Sam sat up, wiping his mouth on his wrist.

“We’re here?” He mumbled, his throat burning cold. “Already?”

“Dude, what do you mean, _already_?” There were punch-dark circles around Dean’s eyes, and he was pale enough to make his freckles stand out like dapples of mud. “Hope you like it here in Nashville, Sam, ’cause I’m not driving us back.”

It was an empty threat and they both knew it; by morning Dean would be back to his cabin-fever self and ready to abandon the demonic stronghold. But for the moment, he looked ready to drape himself over the steering wheel and sleep.

The incident in Seattle had taken more out of Dean than he showed; right now, it was pressing itself like a dirty rag into the hollows on his cheeks and around his throat, the muscles of his shoulders clenched with pain.

“Let’s just find the church,” Sam said solemnly.

True to what Pastor Jim had said, there weren’t many churches to be found along the main thoroughfare. Nashville seemed to spend itself in revelry, bright lights and every edifice trying to outdo the last in sheer size, volume, and architecture. The spire of Lilith’s Reactor, the most ostentatious building by far that they could see, rose from the middle of the city like a hand stretching for heaven, and to Sam it felt like they were always in its shadow.

Dean’s hands white-knuckled the steering wheel, and Sam wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or stress or the sight of the Reactor that had him rocking his hips on the seat and throwing pointed looks out both windows, rarely paying attention to the road he was driving them down.

Dean was on edge; they both were.

Sam felt his muscles dissolve into soupy wax when they finally left the cusp of the bright lighting behind, and found the church; the relief would’ve made him slump if he hadn’t had every sense trained on Dean, ready to react if all of the tension building in the brackets of Dean’s face suddenly burst.

The church itself was elegant, but in its own way: built of some ornate white stone, with spires that blended shadows together and a massive circular stained-glass window over the arching double doors, it was at least as ornate as any other church Sam had seen. It was just in comparison to the rest of the city that it seemed to pale.

Dean drove down the side street toward the front door, the trees flanking their path until they stopped at a small courtyard out front, embellished with a fountain. Dean killed the engine and leaned across Sam for a better look. “Fancy pad.”

“Uh, Dean.” Sam tried to shift. “You’re sorta…crowding me.”

“Prude.” Dean popped the door and climbed out, his knees buckling slightly when he hit the ground. Sam was out the opposite door in seconds, snatching the duffle and moving around the cab.

“Dean? You okay?”

“I’m good.” Dean had one arm curled defensively around his middle, and he held up his free hand. “Gimmie a sec.” He smiled, but it was a stilted expression, mostly turned inward as he breathed shallowly through the pain.

Sam stayed close, studying the courtyard; it was hard to believe a place so peaceful could exist just a few miles from the Reactor where Sam had suffered some of the worst pain of his life. The figure in the fountain, carved of the same stone as the church itself, depicted a man in flowing robes pouring a cistern of water into the pool; the water bubbled and splashed around his feet.

“That’s Jesus, right?” Sam asked, nodding to it.

“Probably. Hey, shouldn’t that water be wine?”

Sam shot him a narrow-eyed look, unimpressed, and Dean straightened. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go knockin’ on heaven’s door.”

Sam wasn’t sure the feeble rasp of the tarnished bronze knocker could be heard through the whole breadth of the building, and was mentally preparing himself to sleep in the truck when the door creaked and eased open.

Jim Murphy’s pewter hair was slicked back and he was dressed as casually as Sam had ever seen him, in a sweatshirt similar to Sam’s and a pair of jeans. Without his robes or trenchcoat, he almost blended in.

“I’m glad you could make it,” He stepped back and Sam and Dean slipped past him, into the foyer. The low ceiling gave way in front of them to the main nave of the church, but Sam swallowed his curiosity and watched Jim tug the door shut and slide the massive bolt home. He turned to face them, caught their stares, and smiled tiredly. “Most of my flock have taken up residence in the basement. After Lilith’s threat, it seemed a little safer to have everyone behind locked doors.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a bleak glance that decided things for them; Sam didn’t have a doubt they’d be sleeping close to the door themselves, a line of defense between the people and any demons who came for them.

“We appreciate you puttin’ us up for the night, padre.” Dean said around a yawn.

“It’s my pleasure. You two are always welcome here.” Jim’s piercing eyes on him left Sam no question that the pastor meant what he said, and there was no protesting. “If you take the door at the far end of the cathedral here and then hang a right, there’s a staircase that leads down to the basement. It locks from the inside, but here’s a key,” He handed a weighty, Victorian-era brass key to Dean. “And if you need anything, my quarters are at the top of the stairs, to the left and down the hall.”

“How come you’re not holed up in the bombshelter with everyone else?” Dean asked, passing the key from hand to hand.

“A shepherd watches over his flock, Dean. A sentry stands guard over the other troops. I’m no good to them if I can’t stand between them and the wolves.”

“Well, you’re definitely not like any priest I’ve ever met.” Dean tucked the key into his pocket.

“I doubt you’ve met many priests, Dean. But thank you.” Jim nodded to the far end of the cathedral. “I suggest you gentlemen get some rest. Tomorrow is a big day for all of us.”

Multicolored moonshine splashed across the blue, crushed-velvet carpet leading up the center aisle, to the altar. The organ pipes on the back wall stood silent gothic vigil over the rows of pews, and some part of Sam knew that a church wasn’t supposed to be this silent; there was an apocalyptic air of anticipation that made his skin crawl.

They found the staircase on the right, following it down to a long, cold hallway with several doors set into the walls. Passing them, Sam spotted bright murals of laughing cartoon lions and bug-eyed giraffes. Play rooms, long since disused; the ghosts of children’s laughter haunted the long corridor.

The last door was locked, and Dean slid the key in, easing the tumblers back in increments to preserve the fragile quiet, and finally shoving the door open with his shoulder. He pulled out his lighter and flicked it, throwing long shadows and blotches of light beyond.

The room looked like a converted dining area: round tables tipped against the walls, central support pillars stained with the old blots of food. Nearly a hundred people were curled up along the walls, sacked out in the middle of the floor or piled on top of each other. Sam saw a few couples pressed so near to each other in the dim glare of Dean’s lighter, they seemed to be one person.

“Well,” Dean murmured under his breath. “Guess this is our party.”

The thought of trying to sleep in the close, chilly quarters made Sam’s stomach curl. “You go ahead, I’m gonna take five, use the bathroom.”

Dean studied him briefly, then tossed him the key. “Don’t get lost up there.”

“I won’t, don’t worry.” Sam didn’t rise to the bait of Dean’s jab, shrugging the duffle off and setting it beside the door. He turned and almost collided with a short, long-faced man on his way in. “Uh…sorry.” Sam dodged to one side and the man squeezed past him, sizing him up with a succinct familiarity that quickly dimmed.

“Careful out there, pal. The kids are throwing fits, could scream your ears off.”

Sam looked at Dean, and Dean shrugged, stripping off his jacket to make a pillow for himself and stretching out with his back to the icy stone wall. By the time Sam shut the door, Dean had gone limp, drifting off to sleep.

Sam wandered upstairs, back into the cathedral, and sat in one of the pews with his feet kicked up on the back of the next, knees almost pinned to his chest, staring up at the crucifix that hung over the organ pipes.

He remembered all the times he’d tried to pray, and failed. Praying didn’t come naturally to him. But in this quiet place of worship, Sam folded his hands and bowed his forehead to them.

“Don’t let them die,” He murmured, and even though it didn’t make sense to him, he thought, if there was a God, then God would understand the things he couldn’t makes sense of. “Please, I’m begging you…don’t let anyone else die because of the things I’ve done.”

“Sam?”

He picked his head up quickly, dropping his flat hands onto the pew as Pastor Jim stepped through the doorway, bleary-eyed.

“Sorry, I didn’t…did I wake you up?” Sam asked.

“No, I heard one of the babies crying.” Jim squinted at him. “Were you praying?”

Sam half-smiled dryly. “Not sure it really counts.”

Jim lowered himself into the pew in front of Sam, didn’t even chide him for having his feet kicked up, just draped his arm over the back and twisted around to face Sam sideways. “In my experience, the prayers we can’t put words to are the ones God understands the most.”

Sam focused on the crucifix again. “D’you really think there’s a heaven and a hell, father?”

“I think there’s a promise of paradise, and a promise of torment. People tend to disagree on the exact meaning of the references. But yes, Sam, to answer your question, I do. I believe men go one way or the other.”

“And d’you think… _demons_ get a choice?” Sam’s voice caught on the convicting word, and he rested his hands on his thighs, fingers turned in, head dipping low.

“ _Demon_ has a different meaning than you think, Sam. You aren’t a _demon_.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jim was silent, for a moment. “I’ve never read in my Bible any place where it says mutants are denied a chance at eternal life.”

Sam nodded, accepting that. It wasn’t the real question, anyway. “You think sins can be forgiven?”

Jim’s head twitched around, his gaze holding Sam’s. “Yes, Sam. I do.”

“ _Any_ sins?”

“You mean what happened in Seattle?”

He nodded.

Jim let out a long, fraught sigh. “It isn’t my place to judge you. It’s not any man’s place to judge any other man, but we do it to ourselves. Like you, Sam. You’ll cheat yourself out of happiness and a future if you let yourself believe you’ve lost the right to have them.”

 “I don’t think it matters what I think I deserve or don’t deserve anymore, father. It’s kind of the eleventh hour.”

“Which is when most people question their faith, and put it to the test.”

Sam chewed on the inside of his lower lip. “Can you baptize someone?”

Jim seemed taken aback, his soft eyes widening with confusion. “Yes, I suppose I can. If there’s a reason for it.”

“Just something Mary talked about a couple times, I dunno. Something about how it purifies you or helps cleanse you of your sins, I guess.”

“That’s more dependent on the state of the heart, whether or not you can truly be clean” Jim said. “But, yes, people are often baptized to symbolize a personal commitment to purify their lives. To do better than they have in the past.”

“Okay.” Sam nodded slowly. “Can you perform one on me?”

He didn’t have to explain; Pastor Jim stood. “Of course I can, Sam.”

 

-X-

 

Nine hours of hard, deep sleep left Dean feeling rejuvenated, if sore from sleeping on the rocky floor, and desperate to be out of the sleeping room and away from Jim Murphy’s followers.

They weren’t bad people; Dean didn’t even know them. But the nearness of so many bodies squeezed together, sardines in a can, made him feel trapped. No elbow room, barely enough leverage to draw his knife without hitting someone in the face. He grabbed the duffle and beat a hasty retreat while everyone else was just beginning to stir, boxing himself into a bathroom on the other side of the staircase and locking the door behind him.

He looked as rough as he felt, a few days unshaven and still worn thin at the edges. Cranking on the tap, Dean splashed cold water on his face and swapped out clothes. The cold subterranean air on his bare back helped wake him up fully, and set his stomach in a frenzy of hunger pangs. By the time he jogged to the upper floor, his ribs grating against the motion, Dean felt like his old self.

The feeling nosedived when he found Sam sprawled on one of the pews, hair damp, one arm draped over his eyes and the other resting across his chest. He was asleep, breathing deep and even, and Dean realized with a stab of disbelief that this might be the last time he ever saw Sam sleeping, alive and drawing in air.

Dean put his back to the wall with a thump, dragging one hand down his face. The truth crashed over him, going to war against the knowledge that he couldn’t protect Sam, this time; this was an enemy Dean couldn’t face down for him. This wouldn’t be like Lancaster, where he could step in between Sam and the rabid Kee-wakw and take the hits for him. Sam would be facing this alone.

It went against everything Dean had ever been: a protector from the moment John had told him to look after Mary. It was part of who Dean was, as integral to him as his heartbeat and the breath in his lungs. Shutting down, when it was needed the most.

Sam snorted suddenly, stirring and letting his other arm fall against his chest. He rocked his head sideways to look at Dean. “Hey.” His voice was drowsy.

“Hey, yourself.” Dean pulled his game-face back on, with some effort. “You hungry? We could probably find somethin’ in town.”

“Nah, I’m good, thanks. “Sam sat up and stretched, long arms hanging in between long legs. “How’d you sleep?”

“Awesome.” Dean hitched the duffle higher onto his shoulder. “Seriously, you sure you’re not hungry?” When Sam did didn’t answer, Dean prompted, “ _C’mon, Sam_. You need the fuel.”

“All right, fine.” Sam got to his feet. “Give me one of those protein bars Bobby packed for us.”

“Real food, Sam. Not munchies.”

“Dean’s right. This isn’t the time to spare your rations.” Jim Murphy joined them, in the same rumpled clothes from the night before. “There’s a diner a few blocks into town. Lilith’s people don’t visit very often, so you should be able to stay under their radar.”

Sam nodded, resigned, grabbing his sweatshirt off the back of the pew and shrugging into it. “What about the arena? We gotta head over there pretty soon.”

“It’s hard to miss. Used to be called the Sommet Center, but the demons renamed it the Gaiaphage. It’s not far from Lilith’s headquarters.” Jim tossed a surreptitious look toward the staircase. “I’ll be there soon, once I make sure these people are taken care of.”

Sam brightened a token amount at that, like the thought of having one more voice cheering him on was a relief. “So, I guess we’ll see you over there.”

“You will.” Jim nodded to both of them, and Sam passed him the brass key. “Be safe out there, you two.”

“You got it.” Dean shrugged the duffle higher on his shoulder. “Ready to go, Sam?”

“Yeah, just,” Sam stuck out his hand. “Thanks, father. For everything.”

Jim clasped Sam’s hand in both of his. “My pleasure, Sam.”

There was something else there, something Dean didn’t understand. But he thought maybe Sam seemed a little calmer as they climbed into the truck and pulled away from the church.

They ate with record speed, mostly because neither of them was hungry; Dean’s stomach rattled with nerves, and Sam just picked at his shortstack without much interest. In fifteen minutes they were back on the road and following bright white signs glinting in the sunlight, directing them toward the Gaiaphage.

“So, this is it.” Dean adjusted his seat, draping one arm on the windowsill and resting two fingers at the low curve of the steering wheel. “Big showdown.”

“I guess.” Sam glanced down at his hands, fingers twisting together in his lap. Dean followed his gaze, and cleared his throat.

“Sam, I mean it. You don’t have to do this. We can find some other way to knock Lilith off her freakin’ pedestal.”

“That’s not true, Dean, and we both know it. It’s gotta be me.” Sam snorted a quiet laugh. “It always had to be me.”

“Well, I’m older and wiser and I’m sayin’ that _bullcrap_.”

“It’s a little too late for that, Dean.” Sam said. “Just remember what you promised, and stick to the plan.”

“Stick to the plan,” Dean echoed sarcastically, and Sam ignored him. In terms of arguments, it was one of the smaller they’d had; it never even reached as far as raising their voices. But the gravity of it seemed to drag the truck on skidding heels as they reached the courtyard outside the Gaiaphage.

Dean yanked the truck into a turn in the middle of the street, bumping the wheels over the curb next to the Gaiaphage and climbing out, slamming the door shut behind him; Sam clambered out in tandem, leaning against the nose of the truck beside Dean and staring up at the arena.

In some ways, it reminded Dean of Salt Lake City: dished roof, silver siding, but with a front wall of sparkling glass instead of cold reflective steel. A side-turret, crowned with a webbed radio tower of metal, jutted out toward the street and cast their reflections back at them: narrow, rippling caricatures.

Dean nudged Sam. “Hey, you wanna bet that tower’s how Lilith used to broadcast the fights?”

“Could be.” Sam squinted up at it, shading his eyes against the sunlight. “If you rigged it right, that thing could ping signals for miles.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” Dean pocketed his hands and nudged Sam with an elbow. “Any last words?”

Sam’s preparatory sigh lifted his whole back. “Nope, I think I’m good.”

“All right.” Dean shrugged away from the cab. “Let’s kick these sons of bitches where it counts, Sammy.”

But from the first step in, Dean knew they were in way over their heads.

He could practically smell the stink of demons from the get-go; worse because they weren’t making any effort to blend in. Tattoos of black along upraised veins, on hips visible through midriff shirts on both men and women. The demons were sporting their heritage like a badge of honor, and it raised the hairs on back of Dean’s neck.

“What’s with the freak show?” He intoned to Sam, sidestepping around a crush of people swarming through the doors behind them. “Place is crawling with mooks.”

“It’s simple, Dean.” Sam said just as lowly, his eyes narrowed with spite. “They’re not scared of us. They’ve got no reason to be. Humans are just dirt under their shoes at this point. We’re in their territory now, hell, we’re in _Lilith’s_ city. They can do whatever they want.”

Sam was jittering, almost hopping in place: shifting from foot to foot, crossing his arms, then dropping them at his sides. Dean watched him for a few seconds, feeling Sam’s nervousness leeching into him.

“Sam, you okay?”

Sam tipped his head back, then shot Dean a glare. “Quit asking me that.”

“All right, geeze. Touchy, touchy.” Dean surveyed the room. “Well, whaddya know. Demonic _bouncers_.” He nodded to a pair of demons dressed in all black, hair shorn close, one tall and burly and the other almost grotesquely slender. “So much for equality, huh?”

“Let’s just go.”           

They fell into the crush of bodies swarming through the lobby, and Dean didn’t think he’d seen this many people in one place at once in his life; period. And this from someone who’d spent twelve years in New York.

The bouncers weren’t actively participating in the crowds, sweeping methodical eyes around the room in search of illicit activity. When one of them caught sight of Sam, he elbowed the other and nodded.

Sam seemed oblivious, but Dean caught the motion, and his jaw clenched. “Pick up the pace, Sam.”

Sam did, bending himself between protesting civilians, and they forced their way to the wide swinging doors leading into the arena itself; crashing through the other side, they pulled up dead in their tracks.

The room was almost pitch-back, lit by a murky dark blue glow from lights folded into the walls in places Dean couldn’t see; there were no bleachers, no seats, just bodies packed together in closer quarters than the sleeping room in Jim’s church. Crystal tubes, strung through with iridescent white globes, hung from the ceiling and emitted a faint fluorescent smolder.

And all that was interrupted by the staggered projections of the arena flung against the walls in holographic discs, slewing bright sizzles of light across scantily-clad bodies in time to the beat of hearts and voices through the building.

“Dean,” Sam looked down as an echelon of light pooled across his torso. “I’ve got, uh…Gaiaphage on me.”

“Tell me about it.” The vivid projection of the arena ahead of them seared into Dean’s eyes as it passed along his skin. “You can watch the fight on the ass of the guy in front of you. Really personal.”

“Sorta creepy.”

Dean had to agree; the whole setup reminded him of a Halloween party he’d sneaked into with Jo once, before they’d realized the devils were topside and there were razorblades in the candy. That same spooky, haunted feeling that crept under his skin in that bonfire-and-concrete warehouse was slithering up his back now.

“I got a really bad feeling about this,” He murmured.

“I’m not surprised.” Sam was breathing through an open mouth. “Dean, this place tastes like demons. I mean, literally, I can _taste_ it.”

Dean was preparing an answer when he saw something moving toward them through the murmuring crowd, and his body snapped taut with adrenaline. “Lilith.”

Sam spun on him, “ _What_?”

Dean boxed him around to face her. “ _Lilith_.”

The demon’s queen seemed to part the bystanders, stopping abreast of Sam and Dean and folding her arms. “Sam. Nice to see you again.” Her eyes traveled over Dean, hardening like ice. “I thought my message was loud and clear. You were supposed to come _alone_.”

“You’re not calling the shots.” Sam said frigidly. “You wanted me here. So I’m _here_. If you’ve got a problem with that, we can always _leave_.”

Dean traded his gaze from Lilith to Sam; there was a hint of Sam’s detachment in his voice, in the gleam of his eyes. The same eyes that had challenged Dean to a fight in that decomposing house were backing Lilith into a corner right now.

“You tuck tail and run,” Lilith infused the words with a swell of derision. “I kill Jim Murphy’s parish.”

“You won’t.” Sam’s tone was flinty. “You care more about me than you do about them. And you know what happens if you touch Jim, _or_ his flock.”

Lilith snapped her head sideways, then back to him. “I know what happens when Dean’s around, Sam. You get distracted. You don’t pay attention to what’s really important. Like the _fight_.”

“I’ll decide what’s important. You just bring Jake out.”

Lilith licked her bottom lip and swept Sam with a perfunctory stare. “Oh, Sammy, he is gonnarip the meat from your bones. You don’t stand a chance, and you know it. All that special something you had is gone.” She shrugged, pursing her lips. “Pretty tragic. You actually had potential. But I guess you’re just another dead-end case.” She patted Sam soundly on the cheek and he jerked back out of her reach, nose wrinkling with disgust. “Better say your goodbyes. Match starts in ten minutes.”

She swayed through the crowd and vanished.

Dean turned to Sam. “Holy _crap_.”

“Guess I was wrong. She’s not scared, she’s cocky.” Sam murmured. “Her whole plan fell through, and she doesn’t even _care_.” There was a feverish light in his eyes. “Dean, what if we’re missing something?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno…it can’t be that easy. Lilith didn’t want you here for a reason. Why’s she letting you stick around?”

Dean didn’t give voice to his thought: that Lilith had told him not to come just to tempt him here. To watch Sam get ripped to shreds. “Who cares? Forget about that skank and let’s get you ready to go.”

Sam planted his feet and didn’t budge. “Dean, there’s something I…Dean, wait!” He grabbed Dean’s shoulder when Dean turned away, spinning him back around. His fingers played merry hell with the creases in Dean’s jacket. “Don’t….if I don’t win, you can’t let them put a bullet in me. Like that Shifter back in Lancaster.”

“Nobody’s shooting anybody!” Dean snapped. “Listen to me. I’m gonna take care of you, if anything happens, _I’m_ gonna be the one who puts you back together. Understand?” When Sam just stared at him with half-wild eyes, Dean grabbed Sam’s arm, the same arm that was binding him to Dean. “Sam! You hear me?”

Sam shook his head slightly, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I hear you.”

“Good.” Dean faced the way Lilith had gone. “We gotta go, Sam. Come on!”

They shoved their way through the crush of bodies, Sam tucked in so close their arms brushed, and Dean felt the inevitability of the fight pressing down on him. Because Lilith was right; Sam didn’t stand a chance. And Dean was walking him straight to his death with open arms.

They finally broke the wall of warm living flesh, stumbling out into the open and catching themselves on the red velvet ropes that circled the arena; it was ground floor and fenced in, like the cages in Orlando and Seattle. It didn’t look all that menacing, or all that different from what Dean was used to seeing. But something about it put a check in his gut, made his stomach cord itself into knots.

Sam muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Five minutes to midnight,” and he braced one hand on Dean’s shoulder for balance, unlacing and ripping of his boots and socks. He shucked off his sweatshirt, then his t-shirt, his skin buttermilk pale in the light from the crystal tubes.

“Here,” Dean said gruffly, and he stripped off his dogtags, holding them out to Sam. “It’s not some girly good-luck charm or anything, but, I dunno…just hold onto it, all right?”

“Dean, if something happens, I don’t want you to lose these.”

“Just put ’em on, you dumb son of a bitch.”

Sam smiled, dimpling one cheek, and he slipped the chain over his head. “Fine.” Hands gripping the felt ropes, Sam stared at the cage, pulling in quick, shallow breaths. “Dean, I just want you to know that I—”

“Don’t.”

Sam ran a hand back through his floppy hair. “Kind of your…last chance to hear me out, Dean. You might wanna listen.”

Dean let his eyes fall shut, then blinked them open just as fast. “What?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Thanks. For everything. For getting me outta that cage in the fist place, and for the way you never gave up on me. I know it was crap a lot of the time, and we were basically taking a swing at a bunch of shadows. But this past year, it was pretty much the best year of my life.” He blew out a long breath, forehead crinkling. “I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate everything you did.”

“Don’t you do that.” Dean stepped closer, narrowing the space between them. “Don’t you give me your goodbye speech, Sam.”

“Call it what you want to, Dean, but I mean it.” Sam’s voice broke slightly, and he cleared his throat again. “I wish we didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes and throat were inflamed. “Me, too.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder and they raised their eyes simultaneously as a tall, slender dark-skinned man hopped over the chains on the far side of the cage, dressed in an olive-drab shirt and combat cargo pants.

“That’s Jake?” Dean demanded.

“Yeah.” Sam gave Dean’s shoulder a convulsive squeeze, then ducked under the rope and headed for the ring.

“Sam!” Dean called after him, and Sam stopped without turning. “You kick it in the ass, little brother.”

Sam’s shoulders heaved with a shaky breath, and then he looked back his cheeks were swept wet with tears. He gave the tiniest shake of his head, denial and pleading in one motion, and, _Dean, help me, I don’t want to do this_.

Reading that, like he was reading Sam’s mind, and it was the final piece of the scattered puzzle that had fallen apart when their lives started tailspinning.

Dean didn’t fight or hide the crease of heat that streaked itself down his cheek.

There wasn’t a damn point to that poker-face anymore.

Sam dried his face on his arm and stepped onto the lowest chain, swinging himself into the arena to the uproarious cheers of humans and demons gathered together. Dean’s pulse drummed a warbeat in his ears.

Something clunked loose high overhead with a mechanical whirring; Dean leaned his head back, two thousand or more people moving in tandem with him, and they watched four sheets of glass, rigged up on a pulley system, detach at one end from the rafters of the Gaiaphage and sink down to box in the cage.

Bulletproof walls that stood between Dean and Sam.

“Oh, son of a bitch, _no_ ,” Dean cussed, sweeping the velvet ropes out of his way and stepping closer to the arena. “ _Sam_ —!”

A hand gripped his shoulder and Dean swung around, dukes up, pulling his intended punch at the last second when he recognized Jim’s sharp features.

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

“The friggin’ glass case, that’s what’s wrong!”

Jim frowned at it. “I’ve never seen this before.”

On the far side of the arena, Lilith flashed a brilliant smile, and Dean’s hackles arched like waves in a storm. “I’m gonna skin that bitch alive. She _brought_ me here for this. She wanted me to see Sam die when I couldn’t _stop_ it.”

“Don’t sink to her level, Dean. Stay calm.”

Dean’s ears rang so loud he couldn’t hear the announcer presenting the fighters: he heard a slice of Sam’s name, of Jake’s. All he could see was how narrow Sam looked next to Jake’s bulk, and the demon’s confident swagger across from Sam’s stillness.

Dean jolted violently, twisting around to face the sound, when somebody hurled a glass bottle against the transparent wall of the cage, shattering it in a spray of blood red liquid. And Jake launched himself at Sam.

Sam held his ground until the last second, bending back out of Jake’s reach and jabbing an elbow harmlessly into his shoulders. Jake rebounded effortlessly, trying to hook Sam around the waist with one arm, but Sam was quicker than Jake was, lighter on his feet. He fell back out of reach, spinning for a roundhouse kick; Jake snagged Sam’s ankle and flung him skidding against the wall.

Dean flinched, locking his teeth. “Don’t let him take you down.”

Jake flew in for a body-slam with his arm leading, but Sam rolled out of the way at the last second, moving under Jake and thrusting a double-footed kick into Jake’s side.

It barely phased him; the demon rolled onto his feet sinuously and charged Sam, backing him into the corner and slamming him against the post. Dean saw Sam’s head fling to one side, then the other as he bit down the pain and snapped his knee into Jake’s chin. It wasn’t a hard enough blow to render him unconscious, but it must have loosened his hold; Sam slithered free and staggered back, massaging his ribs.

It was too close already, less than a minute in. Dean’s heartbeat sounded off in the backs of his knees, in his armpits, his temples, under his collarbones. Pastor Jim’s hand was on his back, a firm and steady pressure, but Dean was numb to everything. Every wavelength of intent he held was focused on the arena.

Dean saw Jake’s mouth move, forming stringent words. Sam plowed toward him and they dissolved into a spinning whirlwind of fists and feet. The old familiarity of the motions entranced Dean, had him bobbing and weaving slightly in time with every one of Sam’s movements; separated, but tuned in to one another. The same cohesion that had driven John to distraction those first few months after Sam had come to stay with them.

Sam wasn’t a demon; wasn’t a monster. Wasn’t a freak.

Was, in all the ways that counted, Dean’s best friend.

And his brother.

And Dean felt it, like the shock of chemicals poured into an open wound, the moment when Jake’s fist landed in Sam’s gut.

Sam doubled over Jake’s arm, spitting up ropes of saliva. Jake heaved him up, with that fist in his midsection and his free hand closing over Sam’s shoulder, flinging him against the wall a second time. Sam struck and bounced off, collapsing to his knees. He shook the pain away and ducked Jake’s kick, aimed for his head, but when Jake followed through his other foot caught Sam in the ribs and slammed him to the floor.

“No, God, c’mon, stay on your feet!” Dean gripped the sides of his head with nervous, itching fingers. “Sam, get moving!”

The audience was in a frenzy of bloodlust to rival every Pit Dean had ever been to, the city’s inhabitants as corrupt as its leader. Sam had been right, the people did want a show; they wanted the floor stained scarlet, they wanted flying entrails and animals in a cage. And they’d get what they wanted, because demons aimed to keep the people happy and well-fed and constantly driving themselves out of control.

            Binging on violent deaths.

            Sam heaved up to his feet, but he was moving slower; when Jake landed a knee on his hip, Sam staggered, tried to counter with a right hook that the demon easily blocked. Jake swept Sam’s legs out from under him and slammed him to the floor by his throat exactly when a gong signified the end of the first round.

            Jake pulled back but Sam stayed down, hands half-curled protectively on his chest, one leg cocked to a knee. Dean could see him fighting for breath.

            “C’mon. Come on,” His mouth formed the words but they escaped a whisper, and barely that much. He doubted even Jim could hear him.

            Sam rolled to his hands and knees, then to his feet, but he put barely any pressure on the leg Jake had kicked, and he rubbed his ribs with gentle pressure, watching Jake pace in his corner. Dean flicked a glance to Lilith and saw her hungry eyes on the fighters; she didn’t care who won, because either way, _she_ won. She was a predator in truest form, and Jake had that same predator’s smile, a cobra ready to strike.

            This wasn’t the first time, Dean knew, that Sam and Jake had crossed paths; but this was their first real fight, not a rigged round in one of Lilith’s personal Pits. This time it was an open field.

            And that didn’t make a damn difference.

            When the gong sounded a second time, vibrating the glass, Jake winged toward Sam on deft feet. Sam, catching his second wind, dropped and struck with two elbow jabs to the midsection; but his blows seemed almost pulled, or he was scrambling. There was no real form to his attacks.

            “No, Sam, that’s not right—he’s getting to your head, c’mon, focus! Remember what I taught you!” Dean hissed.

            “He can’t hear you,” Jim said, and Dean cut him a glare before he focused on the arena again.

            Sam was on the defensive and at a disadvantage, because he couldn’t let Jake’s strikes touch him; the undeveloped demon rippled with power in every contour of his body, and Sam was moving slower, at half-capacity and exhausted as it was. When Jake skirted a kick against the floor of the arena, it ripped holes in the mat; a punch went wide and cracked one of the corner posts in half. There was an impossible amount of energy behind every blow that Jake levered toward Sam, and Sam was barely a hair fast enough to escape.

            And then, suddenly, he wasn’t fast enough at all.

            Dean saw the blow coming as Sam tried to snake around behind his enemy and hook his legs out from under him. Even through the thick glass, Dean heard the brutal _crunch_ of Jake’s fist hitting Sam’s shoulder. It spun Sam around, his free hand gripping his arm with spasmodic fingers, but he swirled around obstinately for a hit of his own. It cracked Jake’s jaw, whipping his head sideways, and Sam planted a kick in his gut that knocked the demon back a step. Jake’s reeling hand caught at Sam’s throat and pulled.

Sam gaped at the broken chain of the dogtags threaded through Jake’s fingers; and before he could defend himself Jake caught Sam’s chin in an uppercut that threw him against the bloodstained glass across the arena. Sam crumpled in a burst of blood between clenched teeth, and didn’t move again.

            Panic floored him. Dean launched himself forward and Jim grabbed the back of his jacket. “Dean! There’s nothing you can do!”

“Let go of me!” Dean snarled, twisting out of his jacket and ducking Jim’s hand, ducking his hold, moving to the glass before he realized it was impenetrable, it was a system that he couldn’t break. The demonic circuit, the gauntlet they’d put Sam through, the path they’d been walking from the start. They were shackled to the plans of a race hellbent on revenge, and Sam was bleeding consequences into the grooves of the arena, flopped on his side with his damaged arm held against his body.

            “Sam, don’t do this—dammit, get up!” Dean howled, pounding his fist on the glass. “Sam, come on!”

            The audience was screaming its way through the countdown. Ten seconds—nine—eight—and Sam would be done. If Jake let him live that long.

            “ _Sam, move it, come on!_ ”

            Dean was stunned, breathless with fearful elation, when Sam pulled his good arm under his body. Slowly, slowly, he lurched to his knees, one hand back against the glass. A streak of blood swiped down the wall as Sam rose shakily to his feet, catching a dribble of blood in his palm and taking a step toward Jake.

            From a sideways angle, he saw Sam’s jaw working, and then Jake sneered, holding up the dogtags. His lips formed the words, _Come and get ’em, kid._

Sam took two shaky steps and Jake gripped him by the hair, yanked him around and kicked his legs out from under him, plunging him to his hands and knees beside the wall.

            Dean’s panic vanished in a heartbeat; in its place, nose-to-nose with Sam and the wall between them, there was only outrage.

            “Sam, _eyes on me_!” Dean bellowed, and Sam’s head rose with feeble slowness, blood dripping from his lips. _Slow bleed_. Dean didn’t let the fear rear its head again. “Look at me, Sammy, look at me— _now get up_!”

            Dean slapped the palm of his hand against the glass.

            Sam’s eyes widened, his fingers dislodging from his injured shoulder. Behind him, Jake was prowling closer.

            The world shrank, in that second: back to what it had been, what had gotten them through everything, through sick days and snowball fights and Pit matches that had left Sam torn and battered and barely hanging on. Trials with John, arguments with Mary, unsteady footing and no chance in hell.

            This. Just them. Just a hand in the back of Dean’s jacket on a balmy night, the only constant that bound the world together.

            Sam flattened his hand over Dean’s, the glass wall separating them.

            Dean ripped back as Jake’s fist pounded the glass where Sam’s forehead had rested a second ago, spidering veins through the impenetrable surface.

            Sam, who was on his feet behind Jake, arms loose and palms facing outward at his sides. And Dean didn’t even have to read Sam’s lips to know what he was saying.

            “Come and get it, you black-eyed son of a bitch.”

            Jake whirled on him and Sam was ready, cuffing him in the temple and kneeing Jake in the gut. _Tender spot_. But Jake was dosed with Masque, toughening his insides. He recovered and came back in force, grabbing Sam’s injured arm and twisting it up between his shoulderblades. Sam’s mouth carved sideways in a yell of pain and he went down—just far enough to spin himself on one knee, cracking Jake’s legs out from under him. Jake faltered back and his grip slackened, and Sam was on him in a second.

            Dean could name every style— _Savate, Kajukenbo, Jujutsu_ —as Sam bled seamlessly through the patterns. Striking pressure points, backing off, always going for the spots of Jake’s unprotected middle. Sam didn’t have the strength to land a fatal blow, but suddenly Jake wasn’t just dealing hits; he was taking them,

            Sam was shutting off the pain; putting everything that didn’t matter as far from as mind as he could. He whirled and braced himself against any blow he couldn’t dodge, taking the hits at nonfatal angles, until Jake had him pressed into the corner again.

            “No, Sam, you know better, get the hell outta there!” Dean shouted.

            Sam didn’t. Back against the wall, he faced Jake, head tucked low, eyes glinting with murderous delight.

            “Jake!” Sam’s mouth formed the name, and Jake hesitated midstride.

            Sam planted both hands on the corner post behind him and drop-kicked Jake in the stomach.

            Jake clenched his fists to his stomach and stumbled back one step.

            Sam flew toward him, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and punched Jake in the same spot. The demon’s fingers wove into Sam’s hair.

            Sam spun for a roundhouse kick, perfect Savate form, one of the first moves Dean had ever taught him; and Jake went down on his ass, spitting blood. The arena erupted around Dean, but it was Lilith’s satisfied smile that caught him off guard, made his skin prickle with warning.

            Sam snapped Jake’s head sideways with a kick and the demon went limp. Sam crouched, peeled Jake’s fist open and yanked the dogtags free.

            “I’ll take these. Thanks.” He straightened and spread his arms slightly. “We’re done here!”

            Dean heard him say it this time, because the glass walls, with a hiss of grinding levers and cogs high overhead, retreated like unfolding wings. There was more cheering, as Sam dropped his arms backs to his sides, but Dean could feel that it was staged. Forced.

            “Something’s not right,” Jim muttered, so close to his ear that Dean almost jumped. “It can’t be that easy.”

            “It’s not. We’re missing something.”

            Sam revolved on the spot to face them, everything about him seeming to crumble with agony and exhaustion. He stumbled toward their side of the arena, hand grazing his arm but not strong enough, even, to grab for the injury.

            And then Dean saw the dark shape rising behind Sam; saw Jake Talley lurching forward with blood streaming from his nose and the corner of his mouth and closing in fast on Sam’s unprotected back.

            “ _No_!” Dean could see, in the instant that the word exploded from his mouth, that Sam didn’t understand: heartbreaking confusion and fatigue run muddy through his eyes in the second Jake caught his shoulders and aimed a paralyzing kick for the base of his spine. And Dean was already moving.

            He planted his hands on the chains and vaulted over them, closing the distance to Jake in a heartbeat and cold-cocking him in the face at the same moment Jake’s boot connected with Sam’s back. With a scream of pain, Sam hit the ground skidding, and Jake collapsed flat on his back, Dean’s knee on his chest.

            Jake was a demon, a mutated anomaly of nature stronger than anyone Dean had ever known.

            But Dean was six feet of gunmetal wrapped in beer and rough edges, facing the enemy who’d tried to kill Sam.

            “I think my brother said we’re _done_.”

            The countdown hit _one_ as Dean slammed his fist into Jake’s face again, splitting his own knuckles but knocking the demon completely unconscious, this time, and a spotlight ignited over his head, dropping a halo of bright white around him.

            The Gaiaphage erupted like a canon blast of sheer ecstasy. Dean hopped back, shaking the blood from his hand, and he was boxed in suddenly by people swarming the stands. Not demons, not a trace of black veins or dark eyes; _people_ , hands slapping his back, stepping all over Jake and not even caring.

            Jim was one of the closest. “It’s over, Dean, it’s done.”

            “Did we win?” Dean asked, a little dazed.

            “Jake was last out.” Jim said, gripping Dean’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dean. This fight goes to the demons.”

            Dean caught Lilith’s smug smile, formed his fingers into a pistol, and mimed the shot toward her head. Then he turned, pushing through the crush of swarming bodies to the place where Sam had fallen.

            Dean tasted relief like copper on his tongue when he found Sam on his hands and knees again, obviously not paralyzed but with an impressive bruise starting to creep its way up his back. Every breath he took was punctuated with a burst of a painful grunt, and Dean dropped to his knees in front of Sam.

            “You did it, Sammy.” He murmured. “Hey, lemee look at you.” He pulled Sam’s head up, listless hazel and green eyes meeting. “You beat the son of a bitch.”

            “Didn’t,” Sam rasped. “Heard Pastor Jim. It was Jake’s fight.”

            Dean hesitated. “That doesn’t matter, Sam. The whole thing was rigged from the jump, anyway. Freakin’ demons.”

            Sam tried for a laughter but it sounded like a sob. “Hurts, Dean, I can’t—”

            “I gotcha, Sammy. I got you, you’re gonna be fine.”

            Sam dropped his face into the hollow of Dean’s shoulder, and Dean curled a hand around the back of his neck, holding Sam in place. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the sound of the riots from the stands—but he couldn’t, suddenly, because he realized what they were saying.

            One name, over and over again.

            _Sam._

Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes tracing over the lights beaming down on them, then taking in the faces masked in shadow. He could see demons, branches of black across their faces, staring at him with pure hatred. He could feel Lilith’s gaze burrowing into his back.

            But every human, every single one in the entire breadth of the Gaiaphage, it sounded like, raised their voices in a victory chant.

            _Sam. Sam! Sam! Sam! SAM! SAM!_

“Hear that, Sammy?” Dean swallowed and tightened his grip on the back of Sam’s neck. “That’s you they’re rootin’ for. You’re their champion, Sam.”

            No response.

            “Sammy?” Dean leaned back slightly to look down at him.

            Sam’s eyes were shut, his rapid panting breaths ghosting across the side of Dean’s neck. Dean tucked him in close again, burying his face in Sam’s hair. _God. Dammit, Sammy, I almost lost you back there_.

            Jim’s hand clamped over Dean’s shoulder. “We need to get you both out of here. Lilith’s rallying her supporters. I don’t think she’s too happy.”

            Dean smirked against Sam’s sweaty, tangled hair. “ _I know_.”

            But just for a few more seconds, he listened to the sound of Sam’s name taking the world by storm.

 

 


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter Forty: A Family Business – Part II

 

            His nightmares were stained with blood.

            Sam didn’t know how long he was gone; he fought Jake, and Max, and the other demonic prodigies through a series of battles that always left him in pain. Sometimes the pain was more distinct—a blast of fire against the skin of his shoulder, a sweep of needling agonies in his gut. Something that burned hot and cold, moving across his back.

            Once, he thought he opened his eyes, to something that wasn’t a nightmare, and he was looking up into Dean’s face. Dean’s arm was around Sam’s shoulder, pinning Sam against his side, and Dean’s head was framed against the black glass of a night sky through a car window.

            But that was impossible; Dean never looked that raw and upset, he never let his emotions show through with so much abandon.

            Sam dreamed he was facing Lilith. She had her hand extended, her expression, and her voice, uncharacteristically soft. “Time to come home, Sam.” Like a mother, coaxing a child to come in after dark.

            Sam stepped back. “Go to hell. I’ve already got a home. I have a _family_.”

            Lilith dropped her arm gracefully. “Sooner or later, they’ll leave you. Everyone does. Even your parents did,” She shrugged. “It’s just a matter of time.”

            Mouth slanting down, eyes tightening, Sam glowered at her. “That’s not gonna work this time, Lilith. I beat your game. I played by your rules, and you _still_ lost.” Sam put his back to her. “You can’t just take over my life. I’m not one of your toys.”

            “Yes, you are, Sam,” She called after him. “I just haven’t figured out how I’m going to play with you yet.”

            Sam dropped through endless miles of screaming fire, gashed open from every angle by Lusiver’s knives. Azazel wrapped a rope around his neck and choked him until he was lying still, alive but not breathing, not moving for fear if he did, his brain would catch up with his body and he’d die.

            Sam walked with demons and humans in his dreams. He heard a thousand voices screaming his name in triumph, and one voice, just one, telling him he was going to die. He revisited every blow from Jake Talley’s fists, and felt them in kind. So much power behind every punch, but Sam had survived. Strong, in his own right; he’d always been strong and Lilith had always feared that power running amuck. She’d tried to kill it, with cruelty and Masque, bend it and mold it into something she could use.

            But Sam had outlasted her; against every odd and every cruel tactic, somehow, he’d forged through to the other side.

            He dreamed of Lilith standing beside an arena framed with glass, her expression smooth but her lips quirking slightly with smug pleasure.

            “You really think you won? You’re living on borrowed time, Sam. You all are.”

            “I’ll take what I can get.”

            Lilith’s smile softened, somehow, still smug but more entreating by a token. “You always were the stubborn one. You know I’ll find you someday.”

            Sam settled his weight, arms spread wide. “Come and get me, bitch.”

            Lilith’s expression, abruptly, shifted to something feral. “Watch your back, _Sam_.”

            With a harsh, thin intake of breath, Sam’s eyes flickered open.

            He was lying flat on his back, his hands folded over his stomach. A pastel-yellow glow highlighted the edges of his face, and Sam slammed his eyes shut against the invasive flush of color. Gradually, tired of watching the sizzling of red blood vessels in his eyelids, Sam peeked one eye open again.

            His first thought was that he was dead; he had to be, because this wasn’t Bobby Singer’s house. With the furniture moved around, the coffee table gone, an old desk from the attic fetched up against one wall—this was their house in Kansas.

            Sam sat up, a scratchy yellow blanket falling to his hips; his desperate eyes traced the room, barely able to believe he was here, and half-wishing he’d just woken to another dream. It had been almost eight months since he’d seen this house, this place of creature comforts, _home_.

            And Sam’s search found John, perched behind the desk, his temple resting on his fist as he perused the pages of a thick black book. He glanced up and met Sam’s wide-eyed gaze, unruffled as ever.

            “Welcome back,” The words came from a deep cavern in John’s chest, just a twang of that southern drawl that Sam knew so well.

            “Did I die?” He blurted out, and John twitched a smile.

            “’Fraid you’re stuck with us in the real world, Sam.” John set down the pen he’d been scaling over his fingers. “Sorry to disappoint.”

            Sam had to laugh at that, glancing out the window; the yard even looked the same, with the Impala and the truck parked flank-to-flank in front of the shed. “What’re we doing _home_?”

            “That can wait.” John leaned his elbows on the desk. “How you feelin’?”

            “I’m—agh.” Sam doubled over, massaging his gut. “Sore, I guess. Ow,” He was surprised by how much pain there was, scorching through the rest of his body from his midsection like the worst stomachache of his life. “What happened to me?”

            John picked up the pen, squeezing both ends between his fingertips. “You don’t remember?”

            “Bits and pieces. I’m a little hazy on the details.”

            “Lilith’s prize fighter happened to you.” John pointed to Sam with the blunted tip of the pen. “From what Jim Murphy told us, you almost didn’t pull the fight. It was pretty touch and go for a while after we got you back.”

            Sam remembered headlights phasing through the windshield, Dean’s open face more canvas of feeling than Sam could ever remember seeing it. He frowned. “Yeah, it’s coming back.”

            John snuffed a chuckle, his eyes aberrantly soft. “You did good out there, Sam. Made us all real proud.” There was just a hitch of feeling in John’s voice, and Sam flushed slightly.

            “Yeah, well, I didn’t win,” He smiled, shame-faced.

            “No, but you did what I couldn’t. You won this family the support it needs.” John said. “We got sponsors from here out the Wazoo, Sam. People calling at all odd hours, wanting to help out.”

            “Help out with _what_?”

            “Anything. Housing, finances—hell, somebody wanted to know if you wanted a _car_. I’m up to my elbows in generosity that I don’t know what to do with.”

            “I should probably get the hang of driving Dean’s truck before I crash a car somebody gave to us.” Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe it. I should’ve died out there. I never should’ve beat Jake.”

            “That’s what everyone thought.” John said frankly. “But you’re built outta something nobody’s ever seen before, Sam. Tough stuff. You did just fine.”

            Sam accepted that, because for the first time he was starting to believe it. He tried to pull himself up further on the couch, then decided against any rapid movements as a lance of pain drove into his skull, radiating from the small of his back. “Gah. How long was I out?”

            “Four days, five days. Even a superhuman takes a while to pull through after a fight like that.” John nodded to Sam’s back. “You got some internal damage there, but you should be fine. Give it a couple weeks.”

            “I think I can manage that.” Sam dropped his head, then hesitated at a warm, dull weight settling over his heart. He tugged at the chain around his neck with one finger, pulling out the dogtags and catching them in the palm of his hand. “Huh.”

            “You put up a fight on givin’ those back after Dean got you home.” John said. “Figured you might as well keep ’em ’til you came around.”

            “Right.” Sam dropped the chain back down the front of his shirt and hung his head again. “Wow. I feel like crap.”

            “That’s what happens when you fight demons, Sam.”

            Sam was about to comment on the irony of that when the front door opened at the foot of the couch and Dean backed in, a sheen of dew on his jacket and sweat on his forehead. “It’s freezin’ out there, dad.” He swung around and stopped, catching sight of Sam, upright and swathed from the waist down in the blanket.

            They regarded one another in silence, the moment with the glass wall between them in the Gaiaphage hanging implicit on the air. Sam’s memory was most vivid of that: of Dean’s eyes catching blue-and-white light from the arena, the desperation that had corkscrewed his mouth, hardened the planes of his face, made him seem years older.

            It had struck him, in that instant, more powerfully than any of Jake’s assaults: that this was Dean, standing before him separated by glass, who was a friend and a mentor, a brother, a confidant, everything Sam had never found in another living thing in his life. And knowing that if he didn’t get on his feet and fight back, Dean would be left alone in a city that belonged to their most powerful, most cunning and most vengeful enemy.

            And it had been the simplest equation bringing him to his feet. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t do that to Dean. He’d blocked out everything of his own free will, and anticipated each of Jake’s blows, reacting in kind. Somehow, pulling the fight at the last second, but he’d still lost.

            It didn’t matter; win or lose didn’t matter, because they were home, and Dean was standing at the foot of the couch with the smallest smile Sam had ever seen. “Heya, Sammy.”

            Sam tossed the blanket off and surged onto his feet; Dean met him halfway across the room and cinched Sam into a hug that Sam returned just as fiercely, dropping his chin onto Dean’s shoulder and closing his eyes.

            _Thought I was gonna lose you_ , was in the hot, halting breath against Sam’s ear.

            Sam squeezed his arm tighter around Dean’s shoulders. _Not that easy_.

            Dean fisted a hand briefly in the back of Sam’s shirt, then thumped him gently on the shoulder and pushed him out at arm’s length. “Damn, it’s good to see you up and at ’em again, Sam.”

            “Feels good. Sort of.” Sam rocked his shoulders, the heat of pain scooting up his spine. Dean seemed to read that much in his eyes, giving him a shove back toward the couch.

            “All right, take a seat.”

            Sam obliged, resting his wrists on his knees, and Dean sank down beside him. Sam shook his hair from his eyes. “What happened to Jake?”

            “Dean happened,” John said, and there was no mistaking the pride in his voice.

            “Laid that sucker flat. Two hits to the face.” Dean held up two fingers. “Wasn’t even a pain to do it either, Sam. You must be losin’ your touch.” The words were teasing, not accusatory, and Sam smiled.

            “I softened him up for you.”

            “True _that_.” Dean got his feet, then cocked a smirk. “Oh, yeah, check this out.” He flicked the light switch and the lamp on the side table came to life. “Some good Samaritan got our power switched back on.”

            “Sure helps with keeping all the food,” John said with grudging gratitude.

            “Speaking of,” Dean disappeared into the kitchen, followed by the clanking of bottles and what sounded like shuffling Tupperware. He returned with three beers, set one on the desk in front of John, took one to Sam and popped the last one open for himself. He toasted silently and took a pull.

            Sam skated one finger around the mouth of the bottle, thoughtful. “So, that’s it? We lost the fight and Lilith just let us walk away?”

            Dean cleared his throat. “Well, uh,” He looked down. “Wasn’t exactly that simple. Y’know? Demons hold a hell of a grudge,” He laughed, but it was slightly off-kilter. Sam shifted closer to him, their knees bumping.

            “Dean.” He said grimly. “Tell me the truth.”

            “Truth is, you raised the stakes higher than they’ve ever been, Sam.” John said, and both boys swung their heads his way. “Higher than Lilith wanted them. She’s layin’ out all her cards. She’s all in.” Dean said, his tone hedging slightly. “She, uh…”

            “The demons called out the bounty on Dean’s head.” John finished, and Sam pinned an incredulous stare on him. “Yeah. Dead or alive, they want him in.”

            “Holy crap,” Sam murmured. “How much?”

            “Two mil.” Dean grinned. “Hell, for that much, Jo and Ellen could turn me in and clean out their debts, right?”

            Sam frowned at him. “This isn’t a _game_ , Dean. We’re talking about your life. We’re talking about _hundreds_ of people gunning for your head. Not to mention the demons out for your blood on top of that. How is any of that funny?”

            “C’mon, Sam, laugh a little!” Dean nudged his shoulder and Sam’s frown morphed into a glare. Dean licked his lips and his smile dropped a few notches. “Okay, yeah, it’s a big freakin’ deal, all right? Me, America’s most wanted?” He scoffed.

            “Is that why we moved back to Kansas?” Sam asked, trading his gaze back to John. “Because the demons know where Bobby lives?”

            “Yup.” John sighed. “But we all know that’s not gonna hold out forever. You can bet your ass Gordon Walker and his kind will be on our doorstep before too long. Only way to keep every headhunter and greedy son of a bitch in the States from coming after Dean is to stay on the move. Stay alert, stay vigilant.”

            “How the hell do we do _that_?” Sam asked.

            John smiled fleetingly. “I’m workin’ on it.”

            Sam dragged in a slow breath, shifting into a more comfortable position on the couch; the longer he was awake, the more his different hurts presented themselves, like the slow-fading effects of painkillers. He massaged his shoulder absently, and Dean tipped the beer bottle to indicate the injury.

            “Yeah, had to pop that thing back in myself. Bet it hurt like hell.” He washed down the memory with a swallow of beer. “You put up a pretty good fight for an unconscious guy, you know that?”

            “Oh, right.” Sam tugged the chain from under his shirt and hooked it off over his head with one hand, passing it to Dean. “You probably want this back.”

            Dean smirked and dropped the chain over his head. “Thanks.”

            Sam rolled the beer bottle between his palms. “So, what’s our next move?”

            “Take some time off. Let you boys rest up, get you back on your feet.” John said. “After that, we test the waters. See what’s what.”

            “Yes, sir.” Sam said.

            “Sounds like a plan,” Dean added.

            There was a clatter and a thump from the upper floor of the house, and three pairs of eyes swept toward the staircase as Mary stepped down, dragging her hair over one shoulder, her face coated in a thin layer of dust.

            “You would not believe how many mice are in that attic,” She complained. “I’ve got my work cut out for me.” She broke off, blinking at the sight of Sam. “Don’t worry. You’re off mouse patrol until that bruise goes away.”

            “In that case, might wanna have Dean hit you back there a few times.” John said with a brief hint of a smile. “Get outta the job as long as you can.”

            “You know I’m standing right here, John.” Mary pointed out with mock severity. “And you’re my first choice.”

            Sam laughed, and easy and loose sound; it felt good to laugh, to be back in this house where everything had begun. But there was an element of the surreal to it, as though his vivid dreams clung to the corners of his mind, distorting reality.

            He’d spent a week actively preparing himself for what he’d predicted would be the last moments of his life; emerging on the other side of a fight that had been engineered to kill him was like being given a second chance.

            It was going to take some getting used to.

 

-X-

 

            Sam’s curiosity returned with his strength, and he couldn’t seem to sit still for more than an hour at a time. After the first day of coming around, and adjusting to his injuries, he asked to borrow John’s cell phone, and he called Bobby. Apologizing profusely, because they’d had to leave, but Bobby told him to not “sweat his fool head about it.”

            “Had about enough of you Winchesters and all your drama. Come back and see  me in a few months, when you got your damn noggin’ screwed on straight.”

            “We’ll make it a date.” Sam rejoined with a grin. “Seriously, Bobby, thanks for everything. Thanks for believing.”

            “Always got a little faith to go around.”

            Sam’s next call, to Jim Murphy, was longer. Sam seemed to be gathering intel on everyone who’d offered to sponsor their family, where they lived, and what they stood to lose from helping the Winchesters.

            Dean observed all of this sitting at John’s desk, feet kicked up on the corner, flipping through an old car magazine from days gone by, or scratching absently at his stitches. Harping on people and annoying them, or crashing out on the rebound, or reading the stack of books Mary had conspicuously placed by his head, Sam was just _Sam_ , and Dean was glad to have him back.

            Snatching somebody from the jaws of death tended to remind you of how important they were.

            There were other important things, too; matters of safety and progress, and the price on Dean’s head. He had to admit it set him on edge; being wanted by the authorities in New York had been bad enough. But there were a lot of greedy people with the resources to come after him if they caught wind of the bounty.

            So Dean laid low; not that he had much choice, anyway. The active stint in Nashville had set him back a few days in his own recovery, but at least now he was on par with Sam. They could complain about their handicaps together.

            Except that Sam didn’t complain; not at all. There was an introspective, thoughtful curve to his mouth whenever he wasn’t actively engaging in conversation, and Dean slowly came to realize that he was looking at a new Sam all over again: one who’d taken a stand for himself and come out on the other side. Sam had found his own reason to fight, his own will to press on that wasn’t tied to somebody’s plans for him, or the influence of a powerful drug.

            Sam finally seemed to know his place in the world.

            And somehow, that put him and Dean on the same level, solidifying the trust between them. A Sam who knew himself was a Sam that Lilith couldn’t manipulate, coerce or butcher into being her perfect soldier. This was a Sam true to the brand on his arm that would never fade away.

            Dean brought his guitar downstairs and played through the cramps in his lazy muscles, spinning his thoughts and worries and everything, the good and the bad, into songs he knew by heart: Bon Jovi’s _Livin’ on a Prayer_ , Zeppelin’s _Kashmir_ , a slew of other songs that had all meant something to someone, once upon a time. To him, or to Mary, to Jo, Ellen, Bill, Bobby and John. He played the songs he knew Sam liked, and Sam bobbed his head rhythmically to the beat, still seeming lost in thought.

            Which was more often than not where Dean found himself lost, too. They’d ended up on the backside of fifty-seven fights, from Lancaster to Nashville and every belly-crawling Pit and high-class arena in between, and the steps they’d taken from one end to the other still left him dizzied, sometimes, if he stopped to think about it. Dean Winchester had almost twenty-six notches in his belt, a quarter of a century of years. But the past year alone had been the most eventful, crazy, and screwed-up thing he’d ever been a part of.

            A thrill ride, in its ups and downs with John and Mary and Sam, the things that had torn them all apart and then knit them back together, finally, as a family.

            Nobody ever brought up Sam’s heritage, because somewhere in the month and a half since Seattle they’d decided it didn’t matter what Sam was, just what he did. What he’d _already_ done, to atone for his mistakes. He’d put his head down on the chopping block, and that was enough for Dean. He knew a real desire to change when he saw one, and Sam was about as true-blue honest as you could get.

            The last glimpse of Lilith’s smug face in the Gaiaphage haunted Dean for days afterward; through the drive from Nashville to Sioux Falls with Sam scrunched over on the seat beside him, phasing in and out of consciousness, and from Sioux Falls to Lawrence. Finally home again.

            Dean had the unnerving sense that even on the defensive, Lilith hadn’t really lost the game. She and Dean were locked in a cosmic dance, a spiteful face-off that Dean didn’t think would really be over until one of them was dead.

            And Lilith still had the Colt, something Dean desperately wanted back with his family, where it belonged.

            Dean wandered out to visit Maggie Robertson’s grave, two days after Sam came out of his restorative coma. He brushed autumn leaves from the marker and rested his wrist on his knee, his mouth pressed to the back of his hand.

            Maggie had been a casualty of the conflict brewing under the surface, back when Gordon Walker had harbored a personal vendetta against the Winchesters; that whole incident had been brief, over almost as soon as it had erupted. By contrast, what they were facing now was on a scale a hundred times more massive.

 Dean didn’t want to think of the collateral that was coming with Lilith out for his blood. Didn’t want to imagine how many people he cared about would find themselves in the crosshairs of the demonic machine of war, before it all came to a head, one way or another, with one side winning and the other at a loss.

Dean heaved a sigh, scruffing a hand back through his hair. “Think we finally figured it out, girl.” He murmured. “Thanks for kicking my ass. I needed it.”

Mostly, in the ensuing days after the League fight, Dean found himself confused by John.

More often than not, John was immersed in newspaper clippings, spread out on the desk in the living room. Every delivery of food from a sponsor brought another bundle of newspapers from at least five different states, and John was completely tight-lipped about whatever he was planning.

“Family business,” He said by way of explanation whenever Dean bugged him about it. “Now go help your mother.”

Mary immersed herself in fixing the little things that had broken down in the house in their absence; mostly, Dean figured, because she didn’t want to think about the kind of trouble Dean was in, or what was coming for all of them.

“You’re pretty pissed at me and Sam, huh?” Dean asked, leaning with crossed arms in the doorway of the room she shared with John, watching her meticulously fold every shirt she pulled from her suitcase.

Mary looked up at him, distress in her eyes. “No, honey, I’m not mad.”

“Then you’re, like, two shakes away from blowing a fuse and going coo-coo.”

Mary managed a smile at that, rising from where she knelt beside the bed and approaching him. She rubbed the back of her hand gently over his arm. “I’m neither.”

“Then what’re you—?”

Mary laid a finger against his lips. “I’m worried, Dean. I’m worried for all of us. But I understand, now: if it hadn’t been this, it would’ve been something else. Evil always comes for you when you stand for what’s right. But we stand _stronger_ as a family.” She cradled the back of his head in one hand, pulling him against her and wrapping her arms around his neck. “We’re not going _anywhere_ , sweetheart.”

Dean laid a hand on her back, gently. “Love you, ma.”

“I love you too, Dean.”

And for now, Dean convinced himself, having this was enough. He could handle not knowing what was waiting in the wings, as long as he had his family.

 

-X-

           

Things came to an impasse.

They always did.

It started with Sam sitting on the couch and Dean lounging on the floor, playing Scrabble while John brooded over his notes at the desk. Dean was pestering Sam into checking to see if [_absquatulate_](http://www.alphadictionary.com/articles/absquatulate.html) was an actual word, after Sam’s “Dean, I swear, it means _to leave with something,_ ” was readily rebuffed by, “My ass, the only thing you wanna leave with is a high score, you cheater,”—and why he was asking the guy who’d _played_ the word to be the deciding voice on the subject was beyond him—when John sat back suddenly, threw his pen down hard enough to flip, bounce and roll it, and he folded his hands behind his head, leaning his chair against the wall.

Sam and Dean shifted their attention to him, for a prolonged period of time wreathed with an exultant anticipation.

“Uh…everything okay, dad?” Dean asked, finally.

“I don’t…” John swept his palms down his cheeks, folded them behind his head again. “Can’t find a damn thing in any of these books, Bobby’s old journal, _anywhere_ about killing demons that’re drugged up with this Masque. It’s like they’re invincible.”

“That’s what you’ve been looking at?” Sam’s forehead whorled with sadness, his eyes dropping low at the corners. “This whole time?”

“I don’t want us to spend the rest of our lives looking over both shoulders, Sam. We gotta find a way to stop this bitch. She can’t be the first of her kind to make herself indestructible.”

“That’s what they made the Colt for.” Dean hinted.

“Then we make ourselves another. Find out how they crafted that first one, follow the same blueprint. I don’t know, we’ll figure _somethin_ ’ out, we don’t have a choice.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” Dean muttered, and Sam stomped on his foot. “ _Ow_!”

“Take as much time as you need.” Sam said. “If there’s anything we can do to help, though—”

“I’ll let you know.” John assured him.

“What’s comforting?” Mary poked her head out of the kitchen, a freckle of flour on her nose.

“Nothin’, Deano’s running his mouth.” John got to his feet, shoving the chair sideways. “From what I can tell, the best defense we got is to dig our heels in, and wait it out when Hunters come to lay a claim on Dean. Bobby’s working with his friend, Mills, in the law enforcement end of things, trying to bury the bounty, make sure people don’t hear about it.  But that’s a shot in the dark.”

“Still a shot.” Dean hauled himself upright. “Besides, dude. We’re one house in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. We’re like a pimple on the world’s asscheek. It’s gonna take them forever to find us.”

“Language,” Mary chided, and Dean caught Sam’s broad, to-die-for smile when Dean rolled his eyes.

“Not men like Gordon. They’ll move faster.” John shook his head. “But we’ll be ready for ’em. This is our house, we built a life for ourselves out here. I’m not gonna let some ambitious son of a bitch take that away.”

Dean cocked a finger at him. “Damn straight.”

“Which is why I want to run over some things with your mother,” John’s tone left no room for argument.

“Which is our cue to shag ass.” Dean said, brightly. “Hey, Sam, I’m really feelin’ a Twinkie and a cold one. Wanna head down to the mini-mart and see what kinda trouble we can get into?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Only _you_ could get into trouble at a minimart in the-middle-of-nowhere-Kansas, Dean.”

Dean shrugged with a pointed smirk, tongue slipping out over his lip. “Hey, what can I say? It’s a talent.”

“Be careful out there,” Mary said. “Take a gun. And if you think you’re being followed—”

“Mom, I know the drill.” Dean protested. “I’m not all that wet behind the ears, all right? Take back roads and shortcuts, make triple sure we don’t have any mooks on our ass. Ten-four on that.”

“Smart-aleck.” Mary chided gently. “Watch out for each other.”

“Always do,” Sam said.

“Lemee get changed and take a leak, and we’ll hit the road.” Dean had one foot on the base of the stairs when John cleared his throat.

“Hold on a second, Deano.” After a moment of thoughtful silence, John fished around in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pair of keys, tossing them underhand. Dean caught them against his chest. “The Impala’s been cooped up for too long. She should be drivin’. Take her.”

Dean felt a hum of shock whitening the tips of his fingers. “You serious?” At John’s curt nod, Dean felt compelled to add, “Dude, you’ve never let me drive that car. I mean, not since I was eleven, when you were givin’ me _driving_ lessons.”

“Old times, old rules. New times, new rules.” John said, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. “You wanna take the truck, I’m fine with that.”

“Uh, no. _Hell_ no.”  Dean grinned. “Thanks, dad.”

“Take care of her.” John’s tone held a warning, but he didn’t elaborate on it, just stepped into the kitchen and out of sight.

It seemed to take twice as long as usual to get dressed, cramming on a thermal shirt and yanking on his jeans, the keys to the Impala never leaving his hand. Outside the sanctuary of his familiar old room, Dean adopted an aura of cool composure, like it was every day that John offered him the driver’s seat of Dean’s baby. His sweetheart, the car that he knew like his own name.

Sam met him at the top of the stairs, yanking on a black jacket that had been a gift from one of their sponsors. Watching Sam revive from the fight was like watching somebody wake up in slow motion; slowly coming aware of everything he’d missed, stepping back into the flow of life one day at a time, always moving a little faster. Sam was almost back to normal.

And Dean had a feeling everything was about to change again.

He was bound and determined not to worry about what John had sussed out during his hours of research. The habit of problems and life-altering complications was that they stuck around no matter how many times you ignored them. Drowning them out on a regular basis was a bad habit; but every once in a while, forgetting kept a man from sinking under the weight of everything he couldn’t change.

The Impala gleamed like a black jewel in the early-afternoon wash of January sunlight, and Dean winged the keyring around his finger on the approach, distantly glad he didn’t have to worry about the sound unnerving Sam.

“Aw, baby, _yes_.” Dean smoothed a hand over the roof of the car, knocking his knuckles appreciatively against her. “You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to be ridin’ inside this old girl? She’s a thing of beauty.”

“Wow, that sounded…really, really dirty, actually.” Sam pulled open the passenger’s side door and slid into the front seat. Dean grinned with satisfaction, popped his own door and dropped in behind the wheel, letting out a long, steadying breath and flexing his fingers around the steering wheel.

“Any idea what you wanna get while we’re out?” Dean asked, sliding the key into the ignition. “And _do not_ say _I don’t know_ , Sam. I’m sick of _I don’t know_. It’s about damn time you started deciding all this crap for yourself.”

“I’m working on it.” Sam said. “But, seriously, I _don’t_ know, Dean. Not yet.” Sam flashed an irritatingly bright smile when Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ll decide when we get there.”

Dean turned the key and the engine caught, purring to life and idling at an intimidating roar. The radio clicked to life, blasting a _Rolling Stones_ cassette through the cab of the car, and Sam swallowed, his jaw ticking.

“Actually, Dean, I really…hate this song.”

Dean glanced at him, surprised; but he figured if Sam was going to really start separating himself from what everybody wanted, stop letting the world decide his choices for him, then music was as good a place as any to start.

“All right, no _Stones_. Heh,” Dean chuckled, popping the tape out and tossing it into a box full of them under the seat. He fished around randomly and yanked one out, flipping it over and running the pad of his thumb over the worn black marker that named the singer and song titles. “Okay, sweet, now we’re in business.”

He popped the tape in and waited for the first nostalgic strains of _Country Roads_ to filter into the silence. Sam stared at the radio, a myriad of emotions spilling through his eyes, and Dean reached for the knob.

“Hey, if you don’t wanna—”

“No, leave it on.” Sam stretched out a hand and brushed Dean’s fingers away from the dial. “I like this song.”

Dean smirked. “Well, all right. Let’s see what baby can do.”

He gunned the Impala and swung her out in a sharp about-face, pressing the pedal to the floor; speeding for the open road with the Impala’s roar wrapping itself around his head and humming against the backs of his knees, and Sam lounging beside him in the front seat, the wind through the open window tossing his hair as he sang along.

Dean knew it was going to take some time, to adjust to life on the other side of the fights; for their victory, as it were, to become less like an imagined possibility and ultimately settle itself in as reality.

Dean wasn’t worried about when events would fall into place. For the first time in months, he was optimistic; time was on their side.

It wasn’t perfect; it wasn’t anywhere close.

But it was a hell of a good place to start.

 

 

 


	42. Epilogue: Human, After All

Epilogue: Human, After All

 

            The first warm flavor of spring was melting the ice of March when Sam and Dean trained beneath the cloudless sky.

            Past hurts hadn’t healed completely; there was stiffness in Dean’s gait, a hitch in Sam’s stride. Bruised ribs, damaged kidneys, a punctured lung, a badly torn rotator cuff; old wounds that put them just slightly off-balance.

            But sometimes the only way toward that last step of recovery was to push the body beyond its limits.

            So they sparred, on Kansas flatland soaked with the last snowmelt and brilliant with first touches of warmer weather. This winter had been harder than the last, in more ways that one; mostly by consequence of isolation and cabin fever. Neither of them would admit it to the other, but they missed Bobby’s constant companionship; they missed the visits from Pastor Jim, and on some level they missed the glory of a fight. Of having the eyes of every person in the room riveted on them.

            There was no going back.

            So they poured these things into their blows, into relearning each other; Dean, learning how Sam had gotten stronger, had picked up some moves, somewhere, that weren’t illegal but than Dean wasn’t expecting and more often than not, they tripped him up. And Sam learned that Dean was a more cautious fighter, now; planning out his moves steps in advance, less likely to overcompensate or be forced off balance.

            It turned into competition, a game to bust through each other’s guards, and they relished it; landing kicks, punches, spinning in and out of each other’s reaches. They sparred as fiercely as they’d argued, as they’d hoped, as they’d fallen and just as passionately at they’d chosen to believe through every unpredictable happenstance during the whirlwind year.

            Damn near electric, exhilarating, it pounded through their veins as rich as blood until the moment Dean slapped Sam’s left hook away, grabbed the front of his shirt and hooked his legs out from under him, slamming Sam flat on the ground.

            Breathing staggered, they regarded one another with an air of anticipation; knowing the fight wasn’t over yet, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

            Sam pulled his knee between their bodies and heaved Dean off, surging up and over and switching their places. He dug his heel into Dean’s femoral artery and laid the bar of his arm against Dean’s throat.

            Dean stretched his head up to relieve the pressure, and grinned. “Not bad, Sam.”

            Sam pulled his arm back, sitting up on his haunches. “Just like that, huh?”

            Dean levered himself up with his weight braced back on one hand, rubbing his throat with the other. “I don’t follow.”

            “We just…go back to the way things were? To the way _we_ were? Like nothing ever happened?”

            The reality—that they’d come to the end of their trail in the fights—had long since sunk in. Two and a half months of stagnant seclusion had forced them to face as much: there was no more fighting to keep them on their game. But there were other things that lingered beneath the surface.

            Seattle. Nashville.

            “Yeah, Sam, just like that.” Dean draped his arm on one knee. “You know why?” When Sam shrugged, eyes distending slightly, Dean pointed to him, “Because Winchesters don’t do the moping thing. We don’t lose our cool like that. So you’re gonna do what the rest of us are doing: you take that crap and bury it so deep, it can’t crawl out of its grave. And just in case it does, you gotta be ready to blow its freakin’ head off. You keep going after it like that, and you don’t let it control you.”

            Sam didn’t believe in ghosts, or zombies; but he did firmly believe that sooner or later, sins had a habit of catching up to you, no matter what your policy was on keeping the past in the past, where it belonged.

            But Sam had something, on the other hand, that he knew he didn’t deserve: the love of his family in spite of his flaws, the understanding of the one person he’d betrayed above everyone else. So for now, he was content to leave the boat calm, on clear waters. Rocking it would come later, if it came at all.

            The screen porch banged and Sam twisted around at a whistle from John that wafted across the yard. “You boys finished up yet? Dinner’s on the table!”

            Dean gave Sam a shove, backing him off. “On our way!”

Dean shadow-boxed Sam back to the house, moving with his shoulders to the gate, so it was Sam who stopped at the white-picket fence, eyes traveling up the length of the house, all shadowed peaks and divots in the sunlight. It struck him like an anvil, a force of motion straight over his still-sore chest, that he was staring at _home_.

Dean stopped, with one hand back against the fence. He snapped his fingers. “Earth to Sam!”

“I’m with you,” Sam murmured, casing the house, through the window that looked into the second-story hallway. _His room_ was there, inside _his house_. Somehow, orphaned from infancy, abandoned by the demons who’d done their best to break him while they raised him, Sam had found his second chance. And his third, his fourth, his fifth; but then, he figured, that was what family was. Forgiveness inside the skins of the people you pulled close and protected with your own lives.

“Doesn’t sound like it.” Dean’s hand slid off the fence. “Dish it, Sam, what’s eatin’ you?”

Sam’s intended _nothing_ was the hedging he knew would rile Dean’s temper; he cut himself short. “D’you think...after Nashville…that it’s really over? That Lilith will stop coming for us?”

“I don’t think she takes getting kicked in the teeth real well.” Dean shrugged. “But that’s okay, Sam. Just means we’ll have to take off, sometimes, go disappear. Go see the Grand Canyon. Or, hey, we can work on that bucket list of yours—all fifty states, right?” He elbowed Sam, and Sam dimpled a smile.

“Right.”

“It’s a big world out there, Sammy.” Dean turned, leaned his outstretched arms on the fencing and les his clasped hands hang loose. “Lilith’s got her army, but, hey. They can’t be everywhere at once. We’ll get by, my mom and I made it in New York. It’s not easy, but, uh—”

“It’s worth it,” Sam concluded, huskily.

Dean slid a glance toward him sideways. “Yeah. Worth it.” 

Sam crossed his arms on the rain-swollen white wood; it rattled slightly, reminding him of a fence around a Qualifier ring in Lancaster, and Dean leaping to his defense. Dean, always, leaping to his defense. “What now?”

“I’ll tell you what. We go inside, we eat a friggin’ delicious dinner, and then we take baby out for a spin. After that, who the _hell_ knows?” Dean flipped a megawatt grin Sam’s way. “And that’s the best part, dude. We could find someplace easy and get jobs, move up to Sioux Falls and rebuild the place…world’s our oyster, Sam, we could go anywhere.”

“But Lilith’s still playing her game…the world’s still in the toilet, Dean.”

Dean snorted. “Let someone else play hero. It’s not our job to save the world, Sam. Besides, it’s not like we actually _could_ …Lilith’s got the Colt, she probably melted it down already. It’s our job to stay one step ahead of her…keep our family alive, keep our friends alive. We can’t pull every single person out of the fire.”

It rankled at Sam; but he accepted it, anyway. Because the world staggered on, crippled, but it only staggered on at all because Lilith kept everything spinning. In a strange, unbalanced way, Sam could see that they needed her. The dark, counterbalancing the light. At least for now, until something revealed itself, some way to gank her without plunging life into utter chaos.

“Boys!” John hollered from around the house. “Food’s gettin’ cold, get your asses in gear!”

“We’ll be there in a second, dad!” Sam called back; catching himself, breath hitched, waiting for reprimand on the slip of the tongue.

“No, you come right now, or you go hungry.”

Sam let out a whoosh of breath, and smiled half at the prospect that, maybe, heritage and legacy and sins accounted for, he’d finally found stable footing with John.

Dean rolled his eyes and legged easily over the fence. “Some things never change. He’ll always be a pain in the ass.”

Sam scaled the fence in one easy hop, his muscles stretching warmly into the motion, and Sam wandered on Dean’s heels toward the front door; realizing, as he went, that Dean hadn’t touched on one crucial part of the equation.

Sam’s entire life stretched ahead of him, free of fights; the first twenty-some years, just a misty nightmare melting off under the sunrise. For the first time since he’d been a child, Sam had a mother, a father. For the first time in his life, he had a brother; someone too proud to say he loved Sam, and Sam was too proud to say it back.

So they played it into their bloody knuckles and blood in their mouths, into the game of sacrifice, always moving closer to each other. Their actions radiating, they were fighting _for_ something. They all were.

Sam had found love on the flipside of his own personal hell, and he was ready to hold on hard, until his knuckles turned white, until running dark burned off into white daylight. Until the sun stopped shining. Until he couldn’t pick himself up off the floor anymore.

And even then, he had a feeling he’d keep going; he had someone watching his back, someone to bolster him up when he buckled, when the walls crumbled around him.

“Better move your ass, Sammy, or your apple pie’s mine.” Dean taunted, taking the porch steps two at a time.

“Aw, Dean, c’mon—don’t even think about it!”

“Ha!” The burst of sound was a dare as Dean flung the screen door wide.

Sam took a step, hesitated, looked over his shoulder toward the road. Plumes of dust rose from places where wild animals had raced across the hardtop, and disappeared into the waxing shadows of the late afternoon.

Sam thought he could live with this, with his own tiny corner of paradise, as long as he got to keep the people that were important to him. He’d done enough, given enough—almost given his life. Baptized, turned over, washed clean, Sam was ready to pick up the pieces and build something that finally made sense. Build a life around the _Winchester_ brand on his arm, around dogtags and beers and the hands that pinned him down, over his heart, telling him that as long as it was beating, they could handle the rest.

“Sam!” Mary’s voice wafted through the open front door. “Did you get lost?”

Sam grinned. “Coming, mom!”

And Sam Winchester scrambled up the porch steps to join his family, stepping out of the shadows and up into the sunlight.

 

 

-The End-

 

 


End file.
